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PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER 


Lovell’s International Series 

OF 

MODERN NOVELS. 


No. 1. MISS EYON OF EYON COURT. By Katharine 
S. Macquoid. 30 Cents. 

No. 2. HARTAS MATURIN. By II. F. Lester. 50 Cents. 
No. 3. TALES OF TO-DAY. By George It. Sims, author 
of “ Mary Jane’s Memoirs.” 30 Cents. 

No. 4. ENGLISH LIFE SEEN THROUGH YANKEE 

EYES. By T. C. Crawford. 50 Cents. 

No. 5. PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. By Mrs. 

Bellamy, author of “ Old Man Gilbert.” 50 Cents. 
No. 6. UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. By Adeline 

Sergeant. 50 Cents. 

No. 7. IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. By Mary 

Linskill. 30 Cents. 

«. No. 8. GUILDEROY. By Ouida. 30 Cents. 

No. 9. ST. CUTHBERT'S TOWER. By Florence 

Warden. 30 Cents. 

No. 10. ELIZABETH MORLEY. By Katharine S. 

Macquoid. 3) Cents. 

No. 11. DIVORCE ; OR FAITHFUL AND UNFAITH- 
FUL. By Margaret Lee 50 Cents. 

No. 12. LONG ODDS. By Hawley Smart. 30 Cents. 

Other books by well-known authors are in course of 
preparation, and will be published at regular intervals. 

*** The above published in cloth ; price per volume , $1.00. 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY, 

142 and 144 Worth Street, New York. 








Air (or OF “OLD MAN GILBERT,” “FOUR OAKS,” “LITTLE 
DOANNA,” Etc., Etc. 



NEW YORK 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY 

142 and 144 Worth Street 

c^> 




Copyright, 1SS9, 

By John* W Lovell. 


TO MY GOOD FRIEND, 

MR. J. C. DERBY. 

THIS LITTLE STORY OF A GEORGIA FARM 


IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED. 







PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE AMAZONIAN QUEEN. 

“ Well, I reckon you are all right now,” said the Doc- 
tor, and paused, a sort of professional trick of his, 
whereby his slightest utterances were rendered impres- 
sive. 

He was a heavy man, looking much older than his 
years which were not yet forty. He had sandy hair 
that grew up straight from his forehead, a bushy, sandy 
beard, keen gray eyes and beetling brows. As he stood 
on the freshly-reddened brick hearth, his feet planted 
wide apart, his ponderous bearing reminded his patient 
of Fitz-James’s defiance : 

“ Come one, come all ; this rock shall fly 
From its firm base as soon as I.” 

But Dr. Griffith meant to take his departure sometime 
or other, for he thrust his freckled hands slowly into his 
buck-skin riding-gloves, as he said, in continuation of 
his verdict, pronounced a few seconds previously; 

“ But your strength won’t come back to you all at 
once. Make up your mind to that.” 

The young man, his patient, turned feebly on his pil- 
lows, and let his slow gaze travel around the cheerless 
room, before he fixed his eyes again on Dr. Griffith. 

“ I’ve had a pretty tough struggle for my life, eh?” 
he asked, with a flickering smile. 

“Do you allude, sir, to malarial fever, or to my treat- 
ment of the case ? " said the Doctor with ponderous 


4 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


jocularity. It was a maxim of his practice to furnish 
jests for his convalescents. 

“Well, — to both,” this convalescent replied magnan- 
imously. 

“Then you can attribute your recovery to Penny’s 
faithful care,” the Doctor declared, with sober gravity ; 
and after one of his pauses: “She’s a good girl,” he 
said, with feeling. 

“ Her name is Penny ? ” said the young man, with the 
lingering speech of weakness. “It’s an easy name to 
say, ” he sighed. ‘ ‘ I must be pretty weak to care whether 
or not a name is easy to pronounce.” 

“You ought to begin to build up, now,” Dr. Griffith 
remarked, meditatively contemplating his big hands in 
their clumsy gloves, though he was not thinking either 
of his hands or his gloves. “And — I should advise — 
professionally — a speedy return to — to your home, sir.” 

He suddenly bent his brows with a look of scru- 
tinizing intensity upon the invalid, for he could not re- 
strain an unprofessional curiosity, a curiosity that he 
condemned as ungentlemanly, also, regardingthis young 
stranger, in the obscure little town of southern Georgia, 
where Dr. Griffith was doomed, as he then thought, to 
practice medicine all his days. 

The young man — he was a very young man, not 
much over twenty, apparently — made an impatient 
gesture with his hand. 

“I am not one of the kind to go back,” he said, 
frowning. 

“Ah? — Hum ! ” grunted the Doctor, with embarrass- 
ment. “Well, perhaps we may call you acclimated, after 
this spell.” But his tone was not cheerful, and he 
sighed audibly. 

“What day of the month is this ?” asked his patient 
abruptly. 

“To-day? Pretty well on in September,” Dr. Griffith 
answered, cautiously. It was, in fact, the beginning of 
October. 

“Good Heaven ! ” exclaimed the young man, raising 
himself suddenly, only to fall feebly back again. “Have 
I been lying ill here more than a month ? ” he faltered. 

“Well, Mr. Kenric, these fevers are slow. Very. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 5 

But you are now well over the attack. Only you must 
take care of yourself. You must mind Penny. She can 
be trusted to obey my orders. She’s a good girl, Penny 
Lancaster. Like her mother ; but handsomer. You 
owe a great deal to Penny. I hope — ” 

The young man was lying with his eyes closed while 
the Doctor dropped these detached sentences one by 
one ; but at the word “hope” the pause was so long 
that the patient opened his eyes and stared. 

“I hope,” proceeded the Doctor, gravely, having 
waited for this sign of attention, “ that you will not be 
— ungrateful to Penny.” 

A vivid red rose in his face, contrasting oddly with 
his sandy hair ; his patient’s face flushed likewise, the 
sudden flush of anger : but Dr. Griffith cared not : he 
had given the warning he felt impelled to give. 

“I shall not be — ungrateful to Penny,” the young 
man returned, with cold mimicry of the Doctor’s tone, 
and closed his eyes again. 

“I bid you good morning,” said the Doctor, a little 
stiffly. “I will see you again, to-morrow. What I 
call a bad position of parties,” he muttered to himself, 
as he went along the narrow, dingy passage of Lancas- 
ter’s Tavern, shaking his head, and jerking at the collar 
of his alpaca coat. 

“Who says Penny ain’t pretty ? And that heart of 
hers overflowing with pity. And that young Yankee ; 
Oh ! confound him, I say ! Wish Mrs. Perry Standridge 
would hurry home. She could take him in hand. In- 
troduce him to society. Penny doesn't belong to society ; 
’tain’t in her. Leaves all that to those sisters of hers.” 

As soon as he felt himself alone, Kenric opened his 
eyes and looked around the dreary room. The walls, 
covered with a coat of rough plaster, enclosed a space 
of twelve by eighteen feet ; the ceiling was low, the 
floor was bare. The narrow red-post bedstead, in which 
he lay, occupied one corner ; beside the bed’s head was 
the one window looking upon the street ; near the bed’s 
foot was the door, opening upon the contracted, dingy 
passage. Behind the door was a shelf that held a row 
of books, and beneath the shelf were a dozen pegs on 
which hung his clothes. On the other side of the room 
was the fireplace, and in the corner, between that and 


6 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


the window was a ricketty pine table that did duty for a 
wash-stand. A splint-bottomed chair, in front of the 
window afforded the only seat. 

Kenric’s vision travelled around this forlorn room 
with fascinated persistency, impressing every detail 
upon his weary brain. “ Lancaster s Tavern,” he mut- 
tered. “What a miserable hole it is ! But a young 
man with his fortune to carve must see the world in all 
its phases.” He closed his eyes, wearily. 

“ It’s no use,” he sighed, presently. “I can’t keep 
them shut ; I must open them, and take in the whole 
cursed inventory again. There ! ” 

And immediately his glance fell upon the fire-place, 
and rested there with some slight sense of refreshment ; 
for a great bunch of cedar-boughs filled the open space, 
and upon the narrow mantel-shelf was a broken vase in 
which other green boughs were clustered, beneath a 
lithograph of Millard Fillmore, in a pine-burr frame. 

A faint, dolefully vibrant sound rose from the street 
below to vex his ear, which made him turn his eyes in 
the direction of the window, with a muttered maledic- 
tion on “comb-music,” that frequent resource in those 
days — of the negro maiden with the fretful baby to 
amuse. The strain brought with it a vision of the dull, 
purposeless street, as little alluring as the room in which 
he lay ; he beheld, in his mind’s eye, the great banks of 
red clay that formed the sidewalk, the idle boys, black 
and white, playing marbles at the corner, the china- 
trees turning yellow in the Court-house square, the 
neglected red cow with ribs and hip-bones pitiably con- 
spicuous, chewing the fallen leaves in melancholy sub- 
mission to her lot, and the hot, autumnal sun shining 
ov r er all — for here the sun was hot, even in October. 

But hanging at the window was a green calico cur- 
tain which Kenric had never noticed there until now. 

“ It must be Penny’s doing,” he murmured, as his 
glance wandered from the window to the fireplace, and 
back to the window again. “ ‘Green it shall be, says 
the fable. Wonder if she sold her eggs — no — her 
chickens — or was it milk, to buy me that curtain ?” 
(He little dreamed how near a guess he made ! ) “Why 
doesn’t she bring me something to eat? I ought to 
have a bell. Lancaster's Tavern ! Worse places there 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. y 

may be, but I hope I mayn’t be doomed to discover 
them. / ungrateful to Penny ? Never ! ” 

He fell to musing on his illness in an impersonal way, 
as though he had been some one else. He knew very 
well that he did not owe what comforts he had to the 
young men of the town who sat up with him by night, 
and visited him by day — well-meaning young fellows, 
but clumsy and stupid, so they seemed to him. It was 
none of these who aired his room, who kept him sup- 
plied with clean glasses and fresh water, who served 
him his food with an appetizing daintiness, not to be 
commanded in Lancaster’s Tavern, usually. He knew 
that he owed all this to his self-constituted nurse, who 
was so quiet, so quick, so ready, and so patient with 
his caprices. He knew that after the manner of a sick 
man, he had made her endure a great deal of petulance 
and fault-finding, and he said to himself that Penny 
should not go unrewarded. He felt ashamed at the re- 
membrance that he had accepted such service as hers 
as a matter of course, and when she came in with his 
dinner, he undertook at once to make amends. 

She could hardly be called pretty, this crude girl of 
seventeen, with her great dark eyes, her sunburned 
skin, her white teeth and strong, capable brown hands, 
but she was pleasant to look upon, and in Morrison 
Kenric’s eyes, between a convalescent’s appetite, and a 
forlorn stranger’s gratitude, she was almost beautiful, as 
she came in, bearing a little flowered bowl that emitted 
an appetizing odor of chicken soup. 

Kenric essayed to sit up in bed, but Penny forbade. 

“ You ain’t got to do that, ” she commanded. “Dr. 
Griffith he says you got to be fed lak a baby. ” 

The sound of her soft, drawling voice made music in 
Kenric’s ears, despite her untutored English, and he 
submitted to her decrees, because it was a luxury to be 
served by her. 

Having propped up his head, she proceeded to feed 
him as if he were indeed a baby, tucking a towel under 
his chin, and giving him the soup in spoonfuls. Her 
brown hands were small and slender, with well-kept 
nails — Morrison Kenric marked that, for he had been 
daintily reared, and he was fastidious. 

The girl fed him with a delightfully serious attention 


8 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


to the task, and a childlike unconsciousness of the sit- 
uation. She had left the door open behind her, after 
the manner of Southerners generally, with no thought 
for appearances. 

“This is particularly good/’ said her charge; “but 
it’s giving out too fast.” 

Penny received the statement with sobriety. “Dr. 
Griffith don't want you to eat too much all to onct,” 
was her reply. 

“I say ! You are a famous cook, though,” com- 
mented Kenric between the lessening spoonfuls. Such 
soup had he never found at the tavern table. 

“Never you mind !” said Penny, coloring furiously. 
“You just eat it and be thankful. It’s the best I kin 
do.” 

The truth was, Penny, distrusting the tavern cookery, 
had appealed time and again to Mrs. Perry Standridge’s 
cook, Mrs. Perry Standridge herself being away from 
home, else possibly Kenric had been in better quarters, 
for Mrs Perry Standridge had a hospitable soul, and she 
dearly loved a presentable stranger. 

“ I am thankful, very thankful,” said Kenric, as he 
swallowed the last spoonful. “I couldn’t be more 
thankful — except for more soup.” 

Penny smiled. “You shall have a milk punch after 
awhile,” she informed him, consolingly. “Dr. Grif- 
fith told me. ” 

Kenric sighed in grateful anticipation. “And they 
call you Penny? You’re a good Penny, though you’re 
always coming back.” 

“And if it warn’t for me always coming back, what 
would become of you , I’d lak to know?” retorted the 
girl, hotly. “ Nobody else would tek the trouble ; not 
in this house.” 

“ I ought to have said you were a good Penny be- 
cause you are always coming back,” Kenric amended. 
“ I might have died. Dr. Griffith said so.” 

“Did he say that? ” exclaimed the girl, with ardent 
satisfaction. 

To know that this fellow-creature, far from home and 
kindred, and doomed to suffer among strangers, owed 
his life to her care, thrilled her very heart. It seemed 
to her that he must, in a manner, belong to her forever 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


c 9 

after. She had the same feeling, only in a less degree, 
about every lame kitten or puppy, or sick chicken that 
she nursed back to health. Morrison Kenric had come 
to Lancaster’s Tavern about the beginning of July, and 
so long as he was able to take care of himself, Penny 
gave him no thought, for she was shy of strangers, and 
this new-comer was not only a stranger, but a stranger 
from very far away, from “somewhere up in the North.” 
But when he fell ill, Penny’s compassion was stirred ; 
she eagerly assumed the responsibility of his comfort, 
and her shrewish step-mother made no demur. “I 
ain’t no fool,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “An’ the man is 
got to be attended toe particklar, Dr. Griffith says, an' 
Penny bein’ a young gal is abler to look after him than 
me.” So Penny shouldered the burden, and kept her 
own counsel. She told no one that she spent her scarce 
dimes to buy a curtain for her invalid’s window, or 
that she purloined the fresh eggs from Mrs. Lancaster’s 
hen-house to provide him a breakfast : and now she 
reaped her reward ; he might have died but for her care, 
the Doctor had said it. 

“Tell you what, sir,” Penny declared, with an access 
of authority, “I ain’t a mind to have you gittin’ a set- 
back, an’ you ain’t got to talk ; talkin’ is bad for sick 
people, I’ve always hearn tell.” 

She had the china bowl in her hands, and was going 
away. 

“Talking won’t hurt me,” said Kenric. “What 
kills one is this staring alone at the same stupid things, 
and having no new ideas. Now you are a new idea. 

I didn’t even know your name until this morning. I 
suppose Penny is short for Penelope ? ” 

“No, indeed!” she returned, throwing her head up 
proudly. “It’s Pen-the-sil-ea, the Amazonian Queen. 

I sh’d think you’d know, being edgercated,” she con- 
cluded, with some asperity, seeing a blank stare on the 
young man’s face. 

“The Amazonian Queen?” Kenric repeated, with 
difficulty repressing a smile. It was ineffably comic to 
find the daughter of an obscure tavern-keeper bearing 
this high-sounding appellation of the Homeric Age. 

, “Of course,” said Penny, with glib explanation. 
“She was the daughter of Mars, and she came to the 


10 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


aid of Priam, King of Troy, in the last year of the Tro- 
jan War ; she was slain by Achilles, and her body was 
thrown into the Scamander by Diomede. I know all 
about her,” she nodded sagely. 

“ Where did you learn all that ? ” Kenric asked, with 
amused surprise, puzzling over the fact that in reciting 
all this she had used correct English. 

“My uncle Joe he give me my name ; an' he told 
me ’bout her , an’ soon’s I could read, he printed it all 
out for me with his pen,” answered Penny relapsing in- 
to everyday speech. 

“ I got that book yet,” she asserted with pride, as she 
sat down again, holding the china bowl on her knee. 
Her dress was an ill-fitting faded calico, but there was 
an unwonted glow in her brown cheeks, and a subdued 
fire in her dark eyes that became her well, and as she 
sat there in an attitude careless, indeed, but not un- 
graceful, Kenric thought she made a very pretty picture, 
and was glad she had changed her mind about going 
away. 

“ It is a very unusual name,” he remarked, gravely. 
“ Do you still go to school, Penthesilea? ” 

Penthesilea shook her head and stifled a sigh. “ If I 
could go to stay with my uncle Joe, I might get to learn 
a little for he knows lots ; but he lives twenty mile from 
here, to the cross-roads, and he don’t seldom ever 
come.” 

“And you would like to learn more?” Kenric asked 
eagerly. “ You would like to improve yourself 
mentally ? ” 

“I’d lak to learn what ’ud be useful to me to know. 
‘Knowledge is power/ the copy-book says, an’ I’d lak 
to have power.” 

“Power? Power for what?” Kenrick asked, more 
and more interested. 

“Power to git away from 'here,” Penny made answer, 
with unhesitating energy. “ Power to help myself on 
in the world.” 

This was an ambition so nearly allied to his own, 
and so unlike the spirit that possessed the generality of 
the population of that region that Kenric’s sympathy 
was keenly excited. He raised himself on his elbow, 
and regarded Penny studiously. 


PENNY LANCASTER^ FARMER . ! l 

“ Have you ever been away from here? ” he asked, 
with a vague, yet irresistible feeling that he had met her 
elsewhere — in a previous state of existence, was it? 
Or was this thought but the ghost of one of his sick 
fancies, returning to vex his brain ? 

“No further’n the cross-roads, twic't, or three times,” 
answered Penny, with a sigh. 

Those visits to the cross-roads had been to her as 
little glimpses of Paradise, for there her uncle Joe had a 
wonderful garden, full of growing things, both for use 
and for show, and Penny’s propensity, from earliest 
childhood, was to dig in the dirt, always with a practi- 
cal view towards the reward of those smiles the earth 
bestows when she is tickled with the hoe. 

“ But Belle and Heneretta have been round con- 
sider’ble,” she added, boastfully. “They’re over in 
Berry County now. An’ last winter they were in Rus- 
sellville, stayin’ with Mrs. Ross Maxwell. She’s Mrs. 
Perry Standridge’s cousin, Mrs. Ross Maxwell is.” 

Kenric fell back upon his pillow, “ Belle and Henri- 
etta ? ” he repeated, but rather as if searching his own 
mind than questioning Penny. He had been in Rus- 
sell vile himself, most of the past winter, and he had 
visited at Mrs. Ross Maxwell’s house. He had gone to 
the place a stranger, to take charge of a department in 
a large school recently established ; but there had been 
a quarrel among the trustees ; the affairs of the school 
fell into inextricable confusion, and he had resigned his 
post in disgust, to accept a position of considerable re- 
sponsibility as superintendent of the Perdico lumber- 
mills just out of Little Warrenton, where he now lay 
recovering from a tedious attack of malarial fever. 
Kenric remembered Mrs. Ross Maxwell of Russellville, 
and hei house, and her hospitality ; he hadn’t quite so 
clear a recollection of the people he met under her roof, 
but he was beginning to understand the vague impres- 
sion that possessed him of having met Penny else- 
where. 

“They’re my sisters,” Penny was explaining, with a 
glow of pride, “ an’ they’re just beautiful. They don’t 
never have much to do with the tavern. They’re older’n 
me, an’ grown up. Belle was married at sixteen, only 


12 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


her husband’s dead. My paw’s wife ain’t our mother; 
our mother was a Donald.” 

And Penny drew herself up with a stately air, as she 
went out, bearing the china bowl 


CHAPTER IL 

THE BLOOD OF THE DONALDS. 

It seemed to Kenric as if he heard her in a dream ; 
but the last statement struck a sympathetic chord in his 
own breast, and roused him like an electric shock. He 
had grown to manhood with the conviction that it was 
a good thing to be a Morrison and a Kenric, and here 
was an obscure, untutored girl in a remote, isolated, 
piney-woods town of the far South, proclaiming with 
pride that her mother was a Donald : He knew nothing 
of the Donalds, but he remembered now that he had 
met, at Mrs. Maxwell’s in Russellville, two sisters con- 
cerning whom he had been informed that their mother 
was a Donald. They were handsome young women 
with some style whom he would never have associated 
with Lancaster’s Tavern. And they were Penny’s sisters 1 
Except a faint, fleeting likeness, there was apparently, 
little in common between them and Penny ; but Kenric 
was conscious of a distinct satisfaction in the discovery 
that the chronic scold down-stairs with the strident 
voice and untidy dress, was not Penny’s mother. He 
had a long-pondered question ready when Dr. Griffith 
came again. 

“Doctor — these Lancasters, what manner of people 
are they ? ” 

The doctor dropped into the one chair and stared ; 
then he threw back his head and looked frowningly at 
the ceiling, stroking his chin in meditative silence ; 
finally he jerked his head down, dropped his hand on 
his knee, and asked, with a smile in his sandy beard ; 

“Is that — a conundrum ? ” 

“At least it is a riddle to me, ” said Kenric. “ I never 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


13 

thought about them until now ; but Penny interests me, 
you see.” 

The Doctor started. “ Penny interests you ? ” he said, 
and bent upon Kenric a look that was not jocose. 

“Penny interests me — as a matter of course; I am 
not ungrateful, ” was the somewhat impatient rejoinder. 

The Doctor threw his head back, and gazed at the 
ceiling again, tlfen bringing his keen eyes to bear upon 
his interlocutor, who was looking fixedly at him, he 
made this statement : 

“Penny is the best of the lot And I know 'em all, 
these Lancasters. They ain’t — your sort," he added, 
with peculiar emphasis. 

“ Leave me out of the question, ” said Kenric ; “ and 
explain to me what manner of people are these Lancas- 
ters?” 

The Doctor looked down on the floor. “ Penny's the 
best of the lot, ” he repeated. “ I've known her since 
she was a child, I ain’t so old as you might think, ” he 
interrupted himself, looking up suddenly. “It’s the 
wisdom of my profession to look older than I am. By 
about ten years. I ain't forty. Not yet. But I’ve known 
Penny from a child. Shes what I call a genius, in her 
way. Most people don’t appreciate that girl. Her own 
family don't.” 

“/appreciate her, ” said Kenric, warmly. 

“Oh, you!” The Doctor frowned and waved his 
hand disapprovingly. “ Don’t carry it too far, ” he ad- 
vised, with a frown that brought his bushy brows 
together in a formidable line across his forehead. 

“ Go on with the Lancasters, please,” said Kenric. 

“Well, as to the Lancasters, you can see for your- 
self. Her mother was a Donald.” 

“ So she told me. ” • 

This statement had the effect of a blow upon Dr. Grif- 
fith. He started and stared hard at Kenric. He would 
have given much to know how it came about that 
Penny had bestowed so much of her confidence upon 
this stranger, but nothing could have induced him to 
aS k 

“The Donalds were a good family,” he said, after a 
longer pause than usual. “Held themselves high, 
Used to know 'em in Habersham. Better family than 


14 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


the Lancasters : though the Lancasters ain’t what they 
used to be, neither. You’d hardly believe it, sir, but 
old Archie that keeps this tavern here has had what you 
would call the education of a gentleman.” 

“ No, I should never believe it,” Kenric assented with 
emphasis. 

“Fact ! He can write a letter that for propriety of dic- 
tion and execution can’t be beat, but he has forgotten 
his English. He used to be presentable enough ; not that 
I remember him,” the Doctor made haste to add ; “I give 
you the tradition. H e had what they call a pleasing address 
and some money ; but Lord ! he never would have 
crossed the Donalds’ threshold if the old Judge had lived. 
The old Judge was one of our aristocrats, sir. But he 
died, and Miss Mary Ann Donald, a beauty and a belle, 
after refusing the best offers in the State, picked up this 
crooked stick. She married Archie Lancaster, sir, who 
was too shiftless to take care of her property or his own. 
It all went under the hammer. Then she died, and he 
married his present wife. You can see for yourself. 
She is as much beneath him as the other was above him 
— even more. She’s dragged him down. He took to 
keeping tavern, relying on his pleasing address, you 
see. When a man is good for nothing else, he can open 
a tavern and poison people with fried fixings. If he had 
the spirit of a Jack-rabbit, he’d touch up around here 
and call it a hotel. But he don’t know how, and his 
wife don’t know any better. The tavern don’t keep him 
any better than he keeps the tavern. He’s cumbered 
with debt and a big family. There are nine children. 
The three oldest are the daughters of his first wife. 
There are two sisters older than Penny.” 

“I met them at Russellville,” Kenric interrupted. 
“ Handsome, both of them ; but a little too much guitar 
and blue ribbon, 'Meet me by moonlight alone,’ and 
that sort of thing.” 

The Doctor laughed. “That’s it !” he exclaimed. 
“ The blood of the Donalds. Lord, Lord, how people 
can come down in the world ! They shirk the tavern, 
those two. You won’t find Penny shirking anything, 
let me tell you,” he interpolated, with involuntary 
warmth, which he instantly checked, to return to her 
sisters. “ But those two ; they cling to the skirts of quality. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

They’re an ambitious pair. One of ’em is a widow, you 
know. ” 

“Yes,” said Kenric laughing; “so I was duly in- 
formed ; but everybody called her Miss Henrietta. Odd 
isn’t it ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, no ; that’s our Southern way,” the Doctor ex- 
plained.” Married at sixteen to Colonel Lyndham’s son 
Jerry. Runaway match. Wild young scamp, but tip- 
top family. The Colonel did some tall swearing, and 
pledged himself by all the gods in the back of his old 
Latin grammar to have nothing more to do with his 
son ; but 'twas all bluster. In an underhand way the 
old gentleman kept Jerry in countenance — he was an 
only son ; and when the boy was killed in a shooting 
scrape, over here at Glens Falls some three years ago, 
the Lyndhams bargained outright for Jerry’s only child, 
a girl baby, two years old. It was a regular business 
agreement ; they pay their son’s widow so much a year 
income.” 

“ What ! The mother gave up her child ? ” exclaimed 
Kenric. “ Well, of all the outcomes of your institution 
of slavery — ” 

“Softly, softly, my Don Quixote,” said the Doctor, 
with a finger lifted in warning. “ It was a very wise 
thing for the mother to do, considered dispassionately. 
She knew what was best for the child, as well as for 
herself. She’s always on the make — and nobody ob- 
jected except Penny. Penny raised Cain. She had 
given herself body and soul to that baby, and she 
thought the child belonged to her. It nearly killed 
her, when they took it away. Fact, sir ! I saw her 
through a case of brain fever, compared to which, your 
attack was mild, sir, mild.” 

“ Poor Penny ! ” said Kenric. 

“Good thing for Penny,” said the Doctor, gruffly. 

“ Why should she enslave herself ? That girl has a 
heart, sir,” he burst forth, excitedly, “that’ll, that’ll — 
well, let us hope it won’t break over some trifling fellow. 
She ain’t like her sisters : they’re on the make, I tell you, 
but Penny isn’t troubled in the least with ambition.” 

“ Oh, but Penny has her ambition, I assure you," 
Kenric declared. 


1 6 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

“ Penny P What ambition ? ” Dr. Griffith demanded 
pugnaciously. 

‘ ‘ Ambition to cut the tavern, to get away from here, ” 
Kenric explained. 

“ Do you mean me to understand that she hopes to 
accomplish this by marriage with some one who — who 
belongs away from here ? ” Dr. Griffith demanded, his 
unconsidered words rolling forth like a torrent not to be 
repressed. 

Kenric laughed. “What a brisk imagination you 
have, Doctor ; ” 

“You’re a young man,” said the Doctor, significantly. 

“Twenty-four,” Kenric informed him. 

“And at that age,” quoth the Doctor, “ the judgment 
is green ; the impulses* are — tumultuous. Twenty- 
four is ever on the verge of folly. 

Kenric laughed again. “You talk as if you had a 
commission from Miss Fish to preach me a warning. ” 

“And who is Miss Fish, pray?” the Doctor asked, 
irritably. “ One of your women’s rights females ? ” 

“ Miss Fish is our family counsellor. She is deep in 
my uncle’s confidence, and she makes him see things as 
she sees them. If she thought me in any danger of 
falling in love out here, I do believe she would come 
with banners flying. Fortunately she doesn’t know 
where I am,” he added, with satisfaction. 

“ All things considered, it would not be a bad idea 
if you’d go back where you came from,” said the Doc- 
for, bluntly, after a pause of some seconds. 

“ That will I not ! ” said Kenric, in deep earnest, but 
with intent to be provoking. “I’ve found at last an in- 
terest in Little Warrenton, and I’m not going back until 
I’ve proved my gratitude to Penny.” 

The Doctor regarded him with an expression of im- 
potent wrath, but was silent. 

“ However,” Kenric went on to say, with secret 
amusement, “ if Penny contemplates matrimony, even 
remotely, I am none the wiser.” 

“ Well, that’s the idea that possesses her sisters ; ad- 
vantageous matrimony,” said the Doctor, recovering 
his equanimity. “But they’ve more talent in that line 
than Penny. Poor little Penny ! I don’t see any 
chance for her to get any farther away than the cross- 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. , ? 

roads where Gentleman Joe scrapes his fiddle to the 
hounds/' 

‘‘Gentleman Joe?" repeated Kenric, inquiringly. 
The phrase caught nis fancy. “ Is that Penny's uncle 
who gave her the astounding name? " 

“ Old Archie's brother,” Dr. Griffith explained, with 
a stately wave of his hand, as though he would relegate 
the person in question to the obscurity of the piney- 
woods cross-roads, “Consequently Penny’s uncle. If 
you could see him in that beggarly sto’ of his, you 
wouldn’t suppose he understands as much as book- 
keeping by single entry ; but tap him in the right spot, 
sir, and Joe’ll quote you the Latin authors by the hour. 
That’s about all the benefit he gets of his college educa- 
tion. Come to nothing; like old Archie. Lack of 
balance, somewhere, poor devil ! Ought to have made 
his mark in the world. Far more brilliant mind than 
his brother, with all sorts of talents, artistic and other- 
wise. Knack at wood-carving and legerdemain ; can 
do all the juggling tricks, but has no sort of go-ahead. 
About the neighborhood of thirty-five, I reckon, more 
or less, and a bachelor. Mrs. Archie is a warning he 
is bound to respect." 

“ It’s from him, I suppose," said Kenric, “ that Penny 
derives her thirst for knowledge ? " 

“ Didn’t know she had any such thirst," said the 
Doctor, blunt disapproval in voice and look. “The 
best kindness you can do her, is to get well as fast as 
possible, and leave her the liberty to live out of doors. 
She loves out-door life. Verbum sap. Joe Lancaster’s 
not the only man in these regions that can quote Latin, " 
he announced with a slow smile. 

“I should like to meet Gentleman Joe," Kenric de- 
clared. “Not altogether for his Latin, you know? " 

“ You’ll find him at the cross-roads, sir," Dr. Griffith 
informed him dryly. “He’s a fixture." 

“ Penny is not going to be a fixture," Kenric asserted 
confidently. You'll see her ambition' will yet carry her 
beyond the bounds of this narrow coop." 

“ I doubt it, I doubt it,” returned the Doctor, testily. 

‘ ‘ Hoivevzr , " he added, after one of his customary pauses, 
and in a more cheerful tone, “Penny is young, just 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


18 

seventeen ; there's no telling what good fortune may be 
in store for a girl of seventeen. ’’ 

He drew himself up with an oddly conscious look, 
and paused just an instant, before saying, with an access 
of gravity : 

“ I bid you good evening, Mr. Kenric." 

The Doctor had a long distance to go through the 
piney- woods, and he rode some miles at a brisk trot by 
way of relief to his feelings. “ Poor Penny ! Poor 
Penny!" he kept repeating. “Wish to God I knew 
Miss Fish's address. I must keep a watch. That’s it ! 
Poor Penny. There’s nobody on God's earth cares half 
so much for Penny — but looks will go for so much with 
a girl ! ” He gave a spiteful twitch at his sandy beard, 
and then he beat his breast “As if it mattered, " he 
cried aloud, “ when the heart — the heart is in the right 
place ? " 

But the Doctor took wise counsel with himself, and 
resolved to be very careful how he showed where his 
heart was fixed. 

Kenric meanwhile was concerned with the problem 
how to evince his gratitude to Penny in such a way as 
to benefit her most effectually without wounding her 
pride. The fact that he was for the first time in his 
life, absolutely without money to pay his landlord and 
his physician, did not concern him half so much : this 
situation, so far from depressing him, gave him a de- 
lightful sense of exhilaration in view of the necessity 
that was now upon him to solve one of life’s practical 
difficulties by his own unaided effort. For this young 
man had set out, defiantly, to open his oyster, the 
world, and he was young and ardent, and full of faith 
in himself, and he did not care to find the undertaking 
too easy wherefore it pleased him to fancy his state of 
debt and impecuniosity more serious than it really was, 
since he knew that he had proved himself invaluable 
in the mill, and that his office of superintendent was 
still open to him as soon as his strength should return. 
In due time he would be able to pay his landlord and 
his doctor in good, hard cash ; but Penny's voluntary 
service was only to be paid in kind. 

When Penny came in with his breakfast next morn- 
ing, she was so dismayed at finding him dressed and 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


19 

sitting by the window, that she nearly dropped the waiter 
she was carrying. 

“ Did Dr. Griffith give you leave ? ” she sharply de- 
manded. 

“ Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t ask him— specifi- 
cally,” Kenric replied. “ He might have said no.” 

“ After all my trouble with you : ” cried Penny, set- 
ting her waiter on the little pine-table with jarring em- 
phasis. 

“ The fact is, I cannot stand this room any longer,” 
Kenric declared. 

Penny glanced around the poor place with a hurt look, 
her eyes resting an instant on the lithograph of Millard 
Fillmore, her one “artistic” possession. “It ain’t lak 
what you’ve been used to, I reckon. Whyn’t you go 
back ? ” she said, with spirit 

“I can’t, Penny,” he answered, sadly. “It isn’t 
the room ; it’s being shut up with nothing to do.” 

“ You’d better be eatin’ yo’ breakfast,” Penny ad- 
vised, somewhat mollified. “ It’ll be gettin’ cold. It’s 
as good as I could raise for you.” 

“ It’s as good as I want, thanks to you,” said Kenric, 
with keen appreciation of the difference between the 
meals Penny furnished him, and those he had eaten at 
the tavern table, an appreciation of which he gave prac- 
tical proof by leaving empty dishes. 

Penny watched him with satisfaction. “I'd a brung 
yo’ mo’,” she said compassionately, “but Dr. Griffith 
he was partiklar you oughtn’t to over-eat yo’self. ” 

“ A few more such breakfasts, and I shall be even 
with Dr. Griffith,” Kenric declared. 

Penny fully intended that he should continue to have 
such breakfasts, though she made no promises. 

“ And if you air bent on gittin’ out of this here room, ” 
said she, “I’ll have these pillows and all sunned, and 
give a good dustin’ an’ sweepin, ‘ I jes’ know.” 

“ Penny, you are a genius ? Why are not the rest 
of them more like you ? ” Kenric exclaimed, impul- 
sively. 

“ Oh ! ” she sighed, and clasped her hands, and 
turned her face away. 

Kenric was repenting of his words, but the next in- 
stant, Penny, unclasping her hands, and dropping her 


20 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


arms with a despairing gesture, looked him full in the 
face. “I want to tear the whole kit an’ boodle to 
pieces ! ” she declared, “ an’ make it all over again, as 
it oughter be, only it ain't keepin’ tavern, / hanker 
after. ” 

“No, I remember,” said Kenric, eagerly, “it’s 
knowledge. And I’ve been thinking about your — 
your ambition — ” 

“Ambition ? ” interrupted Penny, with a startled look, 
and coloring deeply. “I ain’t got no ambition, Mr. 
Kenric, an’ you oughter be ashamed to make fun of me, 
just ’cause I wuz such a fool as to let on that I wanted 
to git along in the world.” 

Her voice was trembling on the verge of tears. 

“ Good heavens, Penny ! Dear Penny ! / make 
fun of you ? Why, I want to help you,” said Kenric 
eagerly. “I’ve been thinking about it these last two 
days. Knowledge is power, as you reminded me your- 
self ; now suppose you let me help you to a little useful 
knowledge ? I’d really be so glad, you know.” 

Penny sadly shook her head. ‘ ‘ I’m afraid, ” she said, 
with pathetic humility. “ I don’t know much to start 
on, an’ I don’t lak sittin’ still.” 

“ What do you like, then ? Dusting ? Sweeping ? 
Cooking my meals ? You’re a famous cook, Penny.” 

“ Lor I can’t cook ; an’ I don’t lak none of them 
things, neither,” Penny frankly declared. “I lak to dig 
in the dirt, an’ see things grow.” 

“ My poor little Penny ! I’m afraid you’ve had pre- 
cious little of your favorite occupation of late. ” 

“That’s nothing !” she replied, lightly. “There’ll 
be time a plenty for me to spen’ outen doors. Some 
time or ’nother, I mean to have land o’ my own, an’ 
things grow in’.” 

“ And you’ll manage all the better,” said Kenric, 
with unexpressed admiration, “the better education 
you have.” 

“ But you see — I’ve got no money,” Penny objected, 
with embarrassment. 

“ Money ? Oh, Penny, it is I that am in your debt ! 
Let us leave money out of the question. I’ve a notion,” 
he went on to say, with unconscious prophecy, “ that I 
shall be best paid by having you for a friend. ” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


21 


“ Well, yes,” said Penny. “Life is long, and some 
day, when I’ve got that land o’ my own, an’ things a 
growin’ — ” She paused and sighed. “But there! I 
don’t know as paw an’ maw would be willin' anyway,” 
she said lifting her tray, and turning to go. 

“ Oh, I’ll manage that,” said Kenrie, with serene con- 
fidence in his powers of persuasion. 

And he rose forthwith and followed Penny down- 
stairs to seek an immediate conference with Mr. Lan- 
caster. 

But Mr. Lancaster had gone to the cross-roads, Mrs. 
Lancaster informed him, “ter try an’ see ef he couldn't 
skeer up a purchase o’ fowels.” 

“ Purvisions is mighty ska’ce, Mr. Kenrie, this time 
o’ year,” she continued, dolorously, “ but I don’t see as 
appetites lessen accordin’.” This speech, however, 
despite her dolorous accent, was intended as a witticism, 
and Kenrie smiled. 

“ War you wishin’ to see him in pertiklar?” she en- 
quired, with devouring curiosity, and smoothing first 
her hair, and then her dress with her expanded hands, as 
in if preparation for an important interview. “A man an’ 
his wife is one, I reckin,” she continued, with a harsh 
and mirthless laugh; “ an’ I'm the bes’ business man 
of the two.” 

She looked at him sternly as she made this revelation, 
for Mrs. Lancaster was strong in the suspicion that this 
Yankee wished to compromise about the payment of 
his board. “ I ain't the soft fool Archie Lancaster is,” 
she commented to herself; “ an’ he can’t wriggle outen 
his board with me.” Aloud, she said : 

“ Times is mighty hard, Mr. Kenrie, an’ money 
ska’ce, an’ chickens an’ new pertaters ain’t ter be bought 
fer nothin’, I kin tell you.” 

“ No ? ” said Kenrie. 

“ Ef it’s any complaint you got to make — ” Mrs. 
Lancaster suggested, assuming an offended air. 

“ Oh, no complaint, whatever. It’s only a little mat- 
ter about Penny.” 

“ I s’pose Penny’s been sassy. The hard-headed 
sotness of that thar Penny Lanks’ter, Mr. Kenrie — ” 

“ She hasn’t been saucy,” said Kenrie with warmth. 

“ She has been so patient and attentive that I shall feel 


22 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


forever grateful,” he went on, impetuously, his sympathy 
for Penny, and his indignation against her step-mother 
impelling him, despite his judgment to unfold some- 
thing of his wishes to this obnoxious woman. “ I’ve 
been talking with Penny, and I think I can be of 
service to her in — advancing her education.” 

Mrs. Lancaster, to use her own words, was “ struck 
all of a heap.” She puckered her lips, and said sourly, 
with a look of unflinching determination : 

“ We don’t do business in that way.” 

If she had been Penny’s mother, most probably 
Kenric would have dropped his benevolent scheme then 
and there, but she was only Penny’s step-mother, and 
he could afford to laugh. ‘ ‘ Oh, I see you don’t under- 
stand me,” he said good-humoredly. “ I’ll wait and 
see her father.” 

To, this, Mrs. Lancaster made no objection, knowing 
that her husband was not the man to sanction any plan 
without her consent 


CHAPTER III. 
dr. Griffith’s sentiments. 

Kenric went out upon the piazza in front, and sat 
down in one of the splint-bottomed chairs, tilting it back 
against the wall, and resting his feet on a second chair. 
He had disdained such a posture, when he first became 
acquainted with Lancaster Tavern, as lazy and undigni- 
fied, and altogether unbecoming a man who aspired to 
accomplish anything of note in the world ; but, he had 
since learned that it is easier to accommodate one’s self 
to the idiosyncrasies of a splint-bottomed chair than to 
make that uncompromising article of furniture subser- 
vient to ideas of energy and dignity. His musings as 
he sat thus, took a disheartening course, with facilis esl 
desce?isus for a text : what incitement was there in such 
a place, to maintain a lofty standard ? Better dwell in a 
cave, face to face with Mother Nature, than live in daily 
contact with a society so remote from all the broaden- 
ing, strengthening, elevating influences of culture. He 
questioned whether he would not be doing Penny a mis- 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


23 

taken kindness to stimulate her desire for knowledge ; 
if she could read and write and keep accounts, was not 
that enough for the life to which she was born ? What 
could education— as he understood education — do for 
her, but emphasize the barrenness of that life ? Always 
the same, ugly, stupid town, its trees barbarously lopped 
of their branches, and sending out a bushy growth at 
the top of their white-washed trunks ; hogs, goats, dogs, 
and stray geese up and down the streets, boys idly play- 
ing marbles all day long, every man in sight tilted back 
in a splint-bottomed chair, chewing tobacco, whittling 
sticks, talking politics to no end, or “ crops ” to no pur- 
pose : no energy, no invention, no enterprise, and a 
stifling atmosphere over all on this October day, that 
was summer still, without its glory, in this Southern 
land. 

That there was in the South an altogether different 
social element from that which this town presented, 
Kenric knew full well. His uncle who stood to him in 
the place of the father he had never known, had many 
friends among Southern gentlemen ; but Kenric, hav- 
ing found it impossible to avoid crossing his uncle’s 
purposes, had elected to be the builder of his own 
fortunes, and he preferred to see life as opportunity 
offered. But his patience must have failed him much 
longer to endure the aspect of life in Little Warrenton, 
save for his new-born, philanthropic interest in the 
tavern-keeper’s daughter. Therefore he soon ceased to 
vex himself with the question whether or not it were a 
kindness to advance Penny’s education ; he had already, 
made up his mind that hers was no ordinary character, 
and to study such a character in its development was a 
temptation not to be resisted in the dull world of Little 
Warrenton by a young man threatened with mortal 
ennui. So he patiently awaited his opportunity with 
Old Archie, determined to carry his point. 

He was not left long alone to ponder the wisdom or 
unwisdom of his plans ; the people of Little Warrenton, 
dull, aimless, uncultured, had human hearts and human 
sympathies. The druggist’s clerk, instigated by a gen- 
uine interest in the invalid for whom he had com- 
pounded pills and potions, crossed the street to take a 
“cheer,” as he told Kenric, and after informing him 


24 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


that he was “pow’ful peaked-lookin proceeded to 
‘talk crops/ The post-master likewise, having little 
else to do — there was a mail three times a week in those 
remote days — paid the sick man a visit to congratulate 
him on looking so “ peart,” and following the lead of 
the druggist’s clerk, talked crops. They did not intro- 
duce politics, out of consideration for Kenric’s invalid- 
ism, probably ; the Omnibus Bill, Kansas Raiders, and 
so forth — topics of that day — were liable to generate 
some warmth of argument between Northerner and 
Southerner. But Kenric, having no planting interest, 
found nothing exhilarating in the discussion of so many 
bales to the acre, and it was a relief when the tavern- 
keeper’s advent broke up the party. 

Mr. Archibald Lancaster, as he naturally preferred to 
be called, was a small, spare man, slightly bald, with 
dull, blue eyes, and a beardless chin. Nature had en- 
dowed him with an elaborate graciousness of manner, 
but the habit of living in perpetual dread of Mrs. Lan- 
caster’s condemnation had subdued him to a sad uncer- 
tainty of demeanor at once comic and pathetic ; but 
this morning it was evident that something had ruffled 
agreeably the tavern-keeper’s usually stagnant spirits, 
for he was in a state of cheerfulness that bordered on 
hilarity. 

“ Why, good mawnin’, Mr. Kenric, sir; very glad to 
see you down again, sir, or up , ha ! ha ! ” he said, offer- 
ing his hand with an expansive flourish. “We may 
look for a change in the weather, pretty soon, I opine. 
Need rain badly ; but rain won’t benefit crops none, 
now ; still we would rejoice to hear a little of the artil- 
lery of the heavens, eh, sir ? ” 

All this he rattled off briskly, his sallow face glowing, 
and his dull eyes shining. Kenrick wondered whether 
he had been drinking. 

“My wife,” proceeded Mr. Lancaster, rubbing his 
hands violently together, as if to subdue his excitement, 
“I would say, Mrs. Lancaster has — a — intimated to me, 
Mr. Kenrick, sir, that you might — a — in fact — that you 
had some proposition to offer in regard to my daughter 
Penthesilea’s education. A fine thing education, sir, a 
fine thing ; went to college myself, sir, but the res 
anyusta domi ” — with a wide flourish of both hands, as 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 25 

if he would express his whole biography in gesture — 
“ as my brother Joseph would quote you. Presume 
you have the original, sir ? ” 

Ignoring this exhibition of thread-bare Latin, Kenric 
went straight to the point “I am indebted to your 
daughter for kindness I can never forget, ” he said, with 
feeling. “ I would gladly make some return." 

4 ‘Penny is a good girl," said her father, with a tremor 
of the lip and moistening eyes. He glanced over his 
shoulder nervously, for he was afraid of Mrs. Lancas- 
ter’s ears. “But she's apt to be kinder quick, at 
times.’’ 

“She’s never a minute too quick for me,’’ said Ken- 
ric, remembering how promptly she had served his 
meals. 

“Ah, sir, said the proud father, “you should see 
the other two. My girls air fine girls, all three. Their 
mother was a Donald.’’ 

Kenric struggled against a smile, and would not say 
that he had met “ the other two.’’ 

“Yes, sir! Though I be their father, sir ; fine girls, 
both, and entitled to something better — better than we 
have here, sir. Blood, like water, will seek its level. 
My eldest, sir, married at sixteen a son of Colonel Lynd- 
ham, as you may have heard. A fine match, but oblit- 
erated by death, sir, inexorable death. Henrietta is 
still a young woman, however, and her prospects are 
good for a second marriage, so I am allowed to believe. 
And my daughter Arabella, I have the pleasure to com- 
municate to you, though strictly in confidence, is now 
engaged to a wealthy planter of Baker County, distantly 
connected with the Donalds. A match that gratifies 
the paternal heart of me, sir.’’ 

Kenric at once perceived the source of his genial 
mood and congratulated him. 

“I thank you kindly, sir,’’ said Mr. Lancaster, elab- 
orately. “Their advantage will doubtless be Penthe- 
silea’s advantage also, and I should wish her to adorn 
the sphere to which she may be promoted, sir, by her 
sister’s marriage. Hem ! Penny has had but a skimp 
chance, heretofore, I am free to acknowledge ; but, 
hem ! Mr. Kenric, sir, business is business. I couldn’t 
afford — ” 


26 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


“Oh, confound it ! ” exclaimed Kenric. “ Don't you 
see that I am her debtor ? ” 

Here Mrs. Lancaster from the doorway lifted up her 
strident voice, to proclaim her consent 

“Why, if it’s in the nature of a free-handed gift, / 
ain't got no objection," she declared. “I’m of the 
opinion, Mr. Kenric," she condescended to explain, 
facetiously, “that it’s jest as well to take whatever 
advantage a body kin git outen everybody else. It’s a 
tough wrastle to keep even with the world, fix it how 
you will. And who knows," continued she, with a 
wink, “but what Penny may git to be a school-teacher, 
an’ help suppo’t the family ? Though that’s mo’n I 
count on from that Donald blood, Lord knows ! " 

Whereupon old Archie dropped his head, and meekly 
went away. 

Satisfied with this permission, Kenric, while waiting 
to recover his strength sufficiently to return to his work 
at the mill, employed himself in arranging a course of 
study for the evenings, which being entirely at his own 
disposal, he was glad to employ in the good work of 
developing an original mind, as he enthusiastically 
judged Penny to possess. The mere study of text-books 
would not suffice for this work ; she must have text- 
books, of course, and regular lessons in grammar and 
other necessary studies ; but it was Kenric’s desire to 
expand her intellect by opening to her a field of new 
ideas. 

To his surprise, and much to his chagrin, he did not 
find Penny ready to accept this plan. He wished her 
to read Shakspeare, or to hear him read Shakspeare. 
“No writer so enriches the mind as Shakspeare," he in- 
formed her. 

Penny had never heard of Shakspeare, and she had no 
aptitude for poetry. “I’d a sight rather know what 
would enrich the soil, an’ make things grow,” she 
sighed. . 

“Oh," said Kenric, disenchanted, “I see; agricul- 
tural chemistry and botany ? ” 

“Maybe so," said Penny. “Whatever would be 
useful in managin’ a piece o’ land when I come to git 

“What a practical body you are ! " he said, not without 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


2 7 

admiration, as he shoved Shakspeare aside, with a sigh. 
He had meant to experiment on this unfledged genius, 
but he was now ready to acknowledge that it was well 
his unwise enthusiasm should be over-ruled by Penny’s 
common sense. 

He confined his instructions to the useful branches of 
knowledge ; yet now and then, for his own distraction, 
he would insist upon her hearing him read some stirring 
passage from the lesser bards — he had closed Shakspeare 
in despair — and Penny as in duty bound, would listen 
patiently. He read her the Psalm of Life, he read her 
Excelsior, and Marco Bozaris, but Penny remained un- 
moved, even though he made her acquainted with 
Thanatopsis and Gray’s Elegy, and the Intimations of 
Immortality. 

“Good Heavens !” he exclaimed. “Don’t these 
things fire your heart ? ” 

“Fire my heart ?” repeated Penny, with uncompre- 
hending laughter. * * Mow P ” 

“Why — inspire you to — lofty deeds?” 

Penny was silent a moment. “There ain’t no lofty 
deeds to be done ’bout here,” said she, slowly. “ Most 
we kin do, is to do the best we kin, I reckon,” which 
was a lofty sentiment, had it but been clothed in appro- 
priate language. 

“At least let us go on with grammar,” said Kenric 
resignedly. 

“Yes,” responded Penny, with a sense of relief, and 
a confidence in herself that made her tutor smile, “I 
know my ground in grammar.” 

But Kenric could not make up his mind to abandon 
his experiment. After an interval, he tried Byron in 
those well-worn passages that have taken root in school- 
readers. He recited with enthusiasm, “Roll on thou 
deep and dark blue Ocean he declaimed the descrip- 
tion of the storm amid the Alps, and Penny said, calmly : 

“I’ve never seen the ocean, nor a mountain.” 

This was the nearest approach she had yet made to- 
wards appreciation, and Kenric felt encouraged. His 
next attempt was to appeal to her love of nature, to 
which end he read her portions ofThompson’s Seasons. 

“It's all very fine, I reckon,” sighed Penny. “But, 
law me I sittin’ readin’ it by the Tight of a lamp in this 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


2 % 

dingy parlor ain’t nothin’ to bein’ out o’ doors an’ livin’ 
in it. ’Tain’t no use; I ain’t much good for poetry. 
That’s Heneretta’s an’ Bella’s line, you see. They’re 
ahead of me.” 

Dr. Griffith walking the tavern piazza, caught these 
poetic echoes now and then, and fretted secretly. “ What 
the devil,” he grumbled, “does old Archie Lancaster 
mean ? ” When it came to Byron, he remonstrated 
openly, not with old Archie — old Archie was a fool, he 
said — but with Kenric. “You’ll be turning the girl's 
head,” he growled. 

“No danger,” Kenric assured him. “She’s got the 
strongest head that ever you knew ; not a grain of 
poetry in her composition.” 

“And therefore you read Byron to her?” said the 
doctor, severely. 

“No, I don’t,” said Kenric, “ only the school-reader 
passages ; and I’ve given that up : poetry is no go with 
Penny.” 

The Doctor was relieved ; nevertheless, he askecL 
frowning: “No love poems, eh?” And then l\e 
tried a futile smile. 

“ Love poems p” repeated Kenric, disdainfully. 
“When I am undertaking to improve her mind,” he 
muttered to himself, as he turned away. “Censorious 
world ! ” 

Could he but have seen the Doctor, half an hour later, 
in a pine-grove, far from town, mouthing to the moon, 
while he paced back and forth, and gesticulated among 
the shadows : 

11 It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, 

To which time will but make thee more dear.” 

“ That's the sentiment of love, sir, as / understand 
it,” quoth the Doctor to his confidante, the pine-grove. 
“ Not a boyish fancy to beguile the idle hours. But a 
man, sir, a man in the plenitude of his meridian is 
nothing to a young sprig in his salad days. Oh, Penny ! 
Penny ! if you but knew the difference ! ” 

Alas ! Penny knew the difference full well. 

The pine-boughs sighed above the Doctor’s head, anc 
the moon went under a cloud. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


2 9 


CHAPTER IV. 

SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT? 

“ Lady down dar, suh, side o’ de saw-dus’ pile, axin’ 
ter see you," said one of the mill hands to Kenric. 

It was the afternoon of a day late in November. The 
sun was shining low and red through the forest of sigh- 
ing pines that stretched darkly, and seemingly without 
bounds, beyond Perdico Mills. 

Kenric, who was leaning in a reverie against a post, 
started at the negro’s message, and turned in haste, for 
the thought darted through his brain that Penny haa 
come to the mill to meet him. The distance was three 
miles, but Penny was quite equal to such a walk. 
Kenric, conscious that his association with her had 
been marked by a grave and commendable decorum in 
keeping with his character of preceptor, and highly 
creditable to so young a man, resolved that she should 
not be encouraged in coming thus to meet him, and he 
went out prepared to signify his disapproval severely, 
and to send her immediately home. 

But as he neared the great heap of saw-dust, his 
heart gave a great bound, and then for an instant, 
seemed to stand still ; that shimmer of green silk, that 
cloud of lace never belonged to Penny Lancaster. The 
lady’s back was turned to him, and her parasol so ob- 
scured her person that his imagination had full play ; a 
vision of red-gold hair, and soft brown eyes in a 
Madonna-like face made him utterly oblivious of Penny, 
of Little Warrenton, of the whole wide world ; could it 
— could it be Laura P In spite of all probability, he be- 
lieved that it was Laura ; — the name which was to 
him a talisman never to be profaned by utterance in the 
prosaic atmosphere of Little Warrenton rushed to his 
lips, and he hastened forward with outstretched arms ; 
but the lady turned — had she heard his cry ? — and be- 
hold ! a stranger. 

A tall and graceful woman with dark hair and blue 
eyes, rose and dropped her parasol, to hold out both 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


30 

hands to the confused young man, as she said, smiling : 

“I see you don’t remember me. It is ten years since 
we met, I think, and you were then a little chap ; if, 
indeed, you are Morrison Kenric?” 

“That is my name,” stammered Kenric, bewildered 
between a sense of unreasonable disappointment, and 
a surprise that excited him most delightfully. 

“And you don’t remember Sophie Elton who used to 
visit Miss Fish — when I was a school girl at Mme. 
Chegary’s ? ” 

“Indeed I do!” cried Kenric, and the color came 
back to his face, and the light to his eyes. “ But you 
are not Sophie Elton still ? And how — how — how in 
the world do you happen to be here ? You don’t belong 
here!” he exclaimed impulsively. “I beg your pardon, 
but this isn’t your atmosphere?” 

She shrugged her shoulders, laughing, as she sat 
down, and motioned him to a seat beside her. “ Much 
obliged, no ; it isn't my atmosphere, as I tell my hus- 
band whenever I can find occasion. But, unfortunately, 
Mr. Standridge owns a large interest in these mills 
about here, and so we have a temporary home in Little 
Warren ton.” 

“ He is your husband? Mr. Standridge of the mills ? ” 
stammered Kenric, in acute surprise; for Mr. Stand- 
ridge was much older than this pretty lady. 

“ Mr. Standridge of the mills,” returnee^ the lady much 
amused. “ I’ll tell him of his new style and title. My 
new style and title does not change my capacity for 
friendship. I remember you as a charming boy, and I 
make no doubt you are a more charming young man.” 

Kenric bowed. 

“So I am going to be a mother to you,” Mrs. Stand- 
ridge announced, with a keen glance from under her 
lashes. 

Kenric disclaimed. “ A sister, you mean. ” 

The lady shook her head. “ A mother is what you 
need, I suspect, a very watchful, prudent mamma.” 

Kenric was conscious that he blushed, but Mrs. 
Standridge would not let him see that she perceived 
this. She caressed her gloves while she said, “You 
must pattern after me, and' receive it as a compliment 
when I tell you that this isn't your atmosphere, either. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. ^ 

I was in much doubt whether you could be the Mor- 
rison Kenric, I used to know ; but the name is uncom- 
mon. Does your uncle approve ? ” She glanced up 
suddenly. “ I don’t mean to be impertinent, you know.” 

“ I’ve quarreled with my uncle,” said Kenric, briefly. 

“ O — h ? v Thrown upon your own resources ? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ It won’t hurt you,” she declared, encouragingly, 
after a pause. “ But pardon me — it seems so very odd 
to find you — -just where you are. For you must know, 
Mr. Kenric, that the young men of our best families, 
here in the South, for the most part marry early and 
settle down to plantation life, or they practice medicine 
or law in some more ambitious place than Little 
Warrenton.” 

“I’ve no profession, you know,” said Kenric; “I 
was to have been a banker, but — my uncle and I could 
not agree.” And he murmured something about the 
advantage of seeing life in all its phases. 

“That’s all Very well,” returned Mrs. Standridge ; 
“but you are not to drop out of your own station. I’ll 
take care of that ! I can’t allow you to base your opinion 
of our society on Lancaster’s Tavern. Little Warrenton 
is a pinch of a place, I grant you, but socially there is 
Big Warrenton which includes all the county, and is 
represented by the planters whose homes are beyond 
the river. On this side, the land is mostly pine-barren, 
a fortune in timber, Mr. Standridge says, but over there 
is the kingdom of cotton. They are the people for you 
to know, sir, and know them you shall. Wealthy 
families, all of them, who live sumptuously and enter- 
tain lavishly, people of education and refinement, 
whose daughters are accomplished and charming girls.” 

“ I haven’t the least doubt of it,” Kenric laughed and 
colored. 

“They wouldn’t be very dangerous to you,” Mrs. 
Standridge said, significantly. 

Kenric was sure that she had reference to Penny, and 
he colored more deeply, not with embarrassment, but 
with resentment. 

“Miss Fish and I have always been great friends,” 
Mrs. Standridge remarked. 


3 * 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


“I did not know it,” said Kenric, still resentful. 
“What has she been writing you about me ? v 

“Nothing whatever. She doesn’t know you are 
here, I am sure. But, to be frank with you, she told 
me something about Laura. ” 

She looked at Kenric with soft sympathy in her eyes, 
and did not smile. 

“ I don’t mind your knowing ! ” said Kenric, impul- 
sively. 

“That’s charming!” And now Mrs. Standridge 
smiled. “ I remember Laura very well ; a lovely young 
girl she was, with great force of character that would 
sustain her under all circumstances. She is three years 
older than you, I think ? ” 

“ That makes no difference ! ” Kenric declared. 

“Well, no,” said Mrs. Standridge; “ if you are bent 
upon seeing the world in your own fashion, and in 
defiance of your uncle, your devotion to your cousin 
Laura will be a safeguard ; she is an eminently wise and 
prudent young woman. I am speaking to you, now, 
as a mamma, rash youth. Laura is related to you on 
your mother’s side, I remember, and naturally your 
dear old bachelor uncle, Mr. Paul Kenric, doesn’t cherish 
the same sentiment of kinship that you do.” 

“You are talking after the pattern of Miss Fish,” said 
Kenric, annoyed. “Her mother” — he alluded to his 
cousin Laura, but he could not bring himself to speak 
her name — “Her mother and my mother were cousins ; 
but it isn’t a mere sentiment of kinship, I assure you : 
it goes deeper.” 

“ On your part ? It is well that Laura is too discreet 
to engage herself to you 1 ” 

Kenric frowned. 

“ But I hope she writes to you — occasionally? ” 

Kenric smiled, and Mrs. Standridge felt relieved. “ I 
know just what letters *she can write,” said she, with 
approval; “ full of wisdom and good counsel, and a 
calmness born of strict adherence to duty.” 

“ You do not like her ! ” Kenric exclaimed, offended. 

“ Oh, yes I do. I am sure she agrees with me that 
you should not break irrevocably with your uncle for 
any girl. You know he has been a father to you/’ said 
Mrs. Standridge, rising. 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 33 

Kenric was silent 

“ But, meantime, my son,” she continued, playfully, 
“ I cannot have you at that wretched tavern; you must 
take up your abode with us.” 

“You are very kind,” stammered Kenric ; “ but I— 
you know I told you, just now, that I wish to see life 
in all its phases/” 

“ Very well,” said Mrs. Standridge, pleasantly; “I 
won’t insist. But when you grow tired of — what shall 
I call it ? — philanthropy , come to us. Not but that I 
admire philanthropy, only, being a Southerner myself, 
I don’t practice it. I’m too frivolous. My only aim, 
at present, is to create a little social diversion in this 
stagnant life of Little Warrenton. And you must help 
me.” 

“ Whatever I can do,” Kenric began, but his sentence 
was cut short by a shrill scream of distress. 

“Mercy upon us ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Standridge, turn- 
ing pale. “ I had quite forgotten the child. Where is 
she ? ” 

Kenric turned in the direction of the cry, and beheld 
an elaborately dressed little girl on the top of a great pile 
of logs. Her foot was caught in the lumber, and she 
was uttering a succession of piercing shrieks. 

“ Keep still,” commanded Kenric, “or you will hurt 
yourself. I am coming to bring you down.” 

He climbed the towering, unsteady pile of rough 
logs, and with some difficulty extracted the screaming 
child, whom he brought down in his arms. 

“Oh, Nannie! Nannie! what is the matter?” cried 
Mrs. Standridge. “ Oh, oh ! How your poor little 
arm is bleeding ! ” 

“ It was — that nasty bottle — of cologne ! ” said the 
child, between screams of fright. “ I dropped it down 
in the logs, and when I poked at it with my hand to 
get it out, I slipped, and it broke and cut me.” 

“ Do you think she can have severed an artery? ” 
asked Mrs. Standridge, alarmed at the flow of blood. 

Kenric thought not ; but the wound was an ugly one, 
and he recommended that it should be dressed by a 
surgeon. He bound up the bleeding arm as carefully as 
he could with his handkerchief, and lifting the child to 
his shoulder, bore her to the carriage which Weis wait- 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


34 

ing across the road. Mrs. Standridge invited him to 
drive home with her, but he declined, being unwilling 
to deprive Penny, without notice, of her regular lesson. 

After the lesson was over, in relating the incident to 
Penny, he spoke of the little girl as Mrs. Standridge’s 
child. 

“ It’s not her child ! It’s my child ! ” cried Penny, 
fiercely, and burst into tears. 

“ How— -your child ? ” Kenric asked, stupefied. 

“ Heneretta gave her up,” sobbed Penny. “ Hen- 
eretta is her mother. And everybody says it was for 
the child’s good. Only I’d a died befo’ I’d ’a give up 
little Nan.” 

Then Kenric remembered that Dr. Griffith had told 
him. “ It’s a shame ! ” quoth he, with the cocksure 
judgment of youth. 

“I don’t reckon maybe its a shame,” said Penny, 
soberly, as she wiped her sudden tears on her apron. 
“Little Nan’s grandfather, old Colonel Lyndham, he’s a 
high quality, and our mother was a Donald, ’T wouldn’t 
do to spile her chances by a bringing up in this here 
tavern.” 

“ But,” said Kenric, who was now past smiling at 
the oft-reiterated boast of the blood of the Donalds, ‘ ‘ they 
let you see her, sometimes, surely ? ” 

“Not me ! ” returned Penny with bitter scorn. “ They 
let her come, sometimes, to stay with Mrs. Standridge ; 
but nobody don’t never let me know. And I don’t want 
to see her ! ” she declared vehemently. “ Better forget ! 
Better forget ! Let ’em have her ! What good would 
it do me to glimpse her by piecemeal ? And that’s what 
I’ve been doin’, these three years they’ve had her. If ever 
I hear the Lyndham carriage is in town, I trapse the 
streets just to see the shine of her hair. And now I’ve 
got the chance, I’m a-goin’, now, now ; I ain’t never 
promised not to.” 

And she ran out of the room, leaving Kenric to pon- 
der on the great heart and strong nature of the tavern- 
keeper’s daughter. 

Mrs. Standridge met Penny graciously, and took her 
in to see little Nan who was sound asleep. 

“She wouldn’t know me if she was awake,” said 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


35 

Penny, tearfully, as she gently stroked the wounded 
arm. “ Reckon she’s hurt much ? ” 

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Standridge answered. “Dr. Grif- 
fith says she will soon forget all about it. It will leave 
something of a scar, perhaps ; but she can wear a 
bracelet. ” 

Penny stood silently contemplating the child, uncon- 
scious that Mrs. Standridge was studiously contemplat- 
ing her. “She would be handsomer than her sisters,” 
ran the current of Mrs. Standridge’s thoughts, “if she 
only knew how to make the most of herself. There is 
a something about her that her sisters have not. Is it 
heart , I wonder? Or is it what they call character ? 
But she will never do for Morrison Kenric, oh ! never, 
never. I hope to Heaven that cold-blooded, self-sacri- 
ficing Laura will hold on to him long enough to save 
him from such a match as this. Poor girl, I hope she 
won’t fall in love with him. Dr. Griffith is the man I 
want her to marry. That would be what I call a suit- 
able match.” 

Penny lifted her face suddenly, and Mrs. Standridge 
said, with a smile : 

“ Mr. Kenric is a lenient tutor, I hope ? He made no 
objection to your forsaking your tasks, this evening?” 

‘ ‘ I didn’t ask him, ” said Penny, with blunt candor. 

“And do you think you are making any progress in 
—in your studies ? ” 

‘ ‘ I reckon he thinks so, or he wouldn’t keep on try- 
ing,” was Penny’s answer. 

Mrs. Standridge smiled kindly. “You are a very 
young girl, Penny,” she said ; “and young girls will 
have fancies. I suppose, now, you take Mr. Kenric for 
a prince in disguise ? ” 

“I don’t know about princes,” said non-committal 
Penny. 

“As in the fairy-tales, you know?” Mrs. Standridge 
suggested. She was very anxious to induce Penny to 
talk about Kenric. 

“ I don’t know fairy-tales much,” said Penny? 

“Well, this is not unlike a fairy-tale,” said Mrs. 
Standridge. “ Has he told you anything about him- 
self, Penny ? ” 

“Not a word/’ said Penny, stolidly. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


36 

“ Why, child, it’s a mere caprice, his present life ; a 
mere whim. He belongs to people of wealth and dis- 
tinction. He’ll vanish, some day, and you’ll never hear 
of him again.” 

Penny listened calmly; she did not altogether believe 
this. 

“ Now your sisters will tell you,” pursued Mrs. Stand- 
ridge, with the kindest possible intentions, “that you 
needn’t put a too-willing faith in any young man — es- 
pecially a stranger.” 

“ I put faith in him — far as it goes,” was Penny’s as- 
tounding answer, from which it took Mrs. Standridge a 
moment to rally. 

“I know Mr. Kenric’s family very well,” she pres- 
ently said. “ His parents died when he was a child, 
and his old bachelor uncle adopted him. The old gen- 
tleman is very wealthy and very ambitious that his 
nephew should marry with — distinction. It would be a 
ruinous thing for Mr. Kenric, if he should marry with- 
out his uncle’s consent.” 

Penny burst out laughing. “ There ain’t nobody for 
him to marry as I see ! she declared “ Why, even 
Belle an' Heneretta — they don’t begin to match him. "I 
don’t know nothing ’bout the plantation girls,” she 
added, with sober second thought. 

“Oh, the plantation girls — we’ll leave the plantation 
girls to take care of themselves. But, my dear little 
Penny, you are wise and good ; you must not throw your- 
self away on a stranger. I wish to see you married to 
a man in our own midst, capable of appreciating — ” 

“ If it’s me you mean, Mrs. Standridge,” said Penny, 
a little sharply, “I kin tell you I ain’t begigged to get 
married; I got somethin’ else to meddle my attention. 
I ain’t no notion of foldin’ my hands and waitin’ to be 
shoved along ; Pm goin’ to help myself get forward ; 
that’s my idea.” 

And Mrs. Standridge was silenced. 

When she detailed this conversation to Mr. Standridge, 
that gentleman roared with laughter. “She’s more than 
a match for you, my dear, with all your finesse ,” he 
said. 

“But what do you suppose she means?” Mrs. Stand- 
ridge asked in perplexity. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


37 

“Why, Sophie, what can she mean but that she will 
take the gifts the gods provide ? I don’t know that the 
Donald blood was ever backward in grasping at advan- 
tages ; even poor Mary Ann who married old Archie 
thought she was doing well to take a man so much ad- 
mired for his fine address. I’ve always been of the 
opinion, in all such cases, that what will be, will be, in 
spite of all interference. Such a match-maker as you 
are, I should think you would be for promoting this ? ” 

“Give me credit for a little judgment,” said his wife, 
reproachfully. “Plainly this would never, never do! 
It is my duty to prevent it. My friendship for his family 
— and besides, it’s unsuitable — and besides — poor Dr. 
Griffith.” 

“What? You don’t tell me ? ” 

Mrs. Standridge nodded. “Yes, my love,” she said, 
in a whisper; “ I made the discovery this very even- 
ing, while be was binding up little Nan’s arm. I’m 
quite in love with the idea. Dr. Griffith would make 
her an excellent husband. Penny is very different from 
her sisters, don’t you know ? ” 

“I suppose she possesses what Kenric calls ‘earnest- 
ness,’ ha ! hal You should hear him on the contrast 
between Northern and Southern character. ‘ What you 
people lack in earnestness,’ says my young Daniel-come- 
to-judgment. ‘Granted,’ say I; ‘but it's your con- 
founded earnestness that spoils life.’ ‘I don’t know of 
but one person in all this region that has true earnest- 
ness of purpose,’ says he, by way of a clincher. De- 
pend upon it, my dear, he means Penny Lancaster.” 

“ Oh, you don’t think he is in love with her ?” cried his 
wife, aghast. 

“ He is in love with his own handiwork, I fancy, like 
the self-sufficient Yankee that he is. “ It’s well it’s old 
Archie’s daughter, and not the niggers he’s after improv- 
ing, or he might find more earnestness among us than 
he bargained for — or could readily deal with. ” 

“Oh, come now, my dear, you promised me you’d 
never broach that topic with him.” 

“Well, I haven’t. Fact is, I’m glad he has taken so 
to Penny. Yourgenuine Yankee must havean ‘object’; 
and this’ll keep him out of mischief. You let him alone. ” 

But Mrs. Standridge could not let him alone ; and so 


38 PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 

it came to pass that during the winter that followed, 
Kenric found himself living in two utterly distinct worlds : 
the world of Lancasters Tavern, and the world of Mrs. 
Perry Standridge, who seemed to live solely for the pur- 
pose of entertaining people in an easy, informal way 
that Kenric found delightful. 


CHAPTER V. 

MRS. STANDRIDGE’s IDEA. 

Mrs. Standridge, zealous in friendship’s cause, hoped 
to deserve well of Kenric’s uncle, and equally well of 
his uncle’s nephew ; therefore, with a studied discretion 
she abstained from all correspondence with Miss Fish, 
lest she might be tempted to reveal what Kenric would 
not wish to be known ; meanwhile she essayed to win 
the young man from what she called his philanthropic 
folly by introducing him to all the pretty girls of the 
county. “ For,’’ argued the astute Mrs. Standridge, “it 
is not written that he is to marry Laura Dent. ” 

It was her reward to discover that Kenric was by no 
means averse to the society of pretty girls ; but her re- 
ward went no further ; to her surprise and chagrin, she 
discovered also that he still persisted in his self-imposed 
task of educating Penny. 

“You certainly deserve credit for perseverance,” she 
said with some pique, when Kenric was dining at her 
house, one Sunday ; and as he was the only guest she 
could express herself freely. “Truly, I can’t under- 
stand it ; / should not judge that the girl has so brilliant 
a mind as to repay — pray excuse me ! — such enthu- 
siasm. ” 

“I am not aware of any enthusiasm" said Kenric, 
flushing. “I haven’t attempted to estimate the char- 
acter of her mind, but though you may not perceive it, 
it is plain to me that she is superior to her surroundings, 
and such a case appeals to the sentiment of humanity. ” 

“Aye, ” Mr. Standridge interrupted, “my wife has felt 
the same stirrings of a lofty humanity, lax Southerner 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

though she is. See what she has done for those two 
Lancaster girls ! It has been her mission in life to unfit 
them for the tavern." 

“Nature unfitted them for the tavern/' said Mrs. 
Standridge. “ Their mother was a Donald." 

Kenric burst out laughing. 

“I assure you,” said Mrs. Standridge, with decision, 
“ the Donalds are an old Georgia family of the highest 
respectability ; and the Lancasters themselves have 
seen better days. Those two older daughters are very 
creditable specimens of the blood of the Donalds, 
now." 

“ Whenever my wife says ‘ now ’ inconsequently, at 
the end of a sentence, I always submit," Mr. Stand- 
ridge remarked, dryly. 

“As long as they keep away from the tavern, people 
remember the Donalds and forget the Lancasters," pur- 
sued Mrs. Standridge. “It is style and management — 
more than beauty that does for them. But Penny is not 
like her sisters ; I can’t see that she is so much out of 
place in Lancaster’s Tavern ; poor girl, she did not in- 
herit style. " 

“Perhaps she has the more management” said Mn 
Standridge, perversely. “Remember that night she 
flew around here to see that little monkey, Nan, her 
sister’s child ? One might have thought she was the 
mother. — The girl has got a heart — that’s what does it." 

“I see I shall have to keep an eye upon you, sir," 
said his wife. 

“She means you, Kenric; your philanthropy keeps 
her uneasy,” Mr. Standridge proclaimed, boldly. 

“ My husband is a stupid blunderer, Mr. Kenric ; but 
since he has blundered into the subject you must for- 
give me for saying that people will talk.” 

“Penny understands me,” said Kenric, a little stiffly, 
“ and I understand her." 

“Oh, I dare say Penny understands you — but as to 
your understanding her ? Conceited young man ! ” 
laughed Mrs. Standridge, and Mr. Standridge shook his 
head. 

“At least," said Kenric, nettled, “I am conscious of 
the most exalted motives, and I am not afraid of idle 
gossip." 


40 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


* ‘Let him alone,” said Mr. Standridge, good-hu- 
moredly ; “he will learn a lesson.” 

But Kenric argued that if a man allowed himself to be 
deterred by criticism or suspicion, he would never ac- 
complish any good in the world ; he therefore turned a 
deaf ear. to Mrs. Standridge’s warning, and continued to 
instruct Penny in the little stuffy, unused parlor, in spite 
of the covert ridicule of the inmates of Lancasters 
Tavern ; and the tongues of Little Warrenton wagged 
with vaticinations various as to the outcome of “so 
much education.” 

Dr. Griffith, who had built his hopes on the distrac- 
tions Mrs. Standridge would be able to offer, was per- 
plexed and enraged to find that Kenric was not to be 
turned from his purpose of developing Penny’s talents 
by any gayeties of that gay lady’s invention, and when 
he heard the gossip on the subject, he made up his 
mind to remonstrate seriously with Kenric. 

“Confound him!” the Doctor growled. “Why 
couldn’t he be content to let the girl alone ? That was 
all I meant when, like a fool, I had to go talk of the 
gratitude he owes Penny. It’s his meddlesome Yankee 
conscience, I suppose, improving the condition of the 
ignorant Putting notions in the girl’s head to the de- 
struction of her happiness. He sha’n’t do it. I’ll go 
now and have it out with him. Sitting there, tilted back 
in his chair under the China-trees, as if he were a born 
Southerner. ” 

For the spring had come, the trees were in leaf, and 
all men of leisure sat out of doors, tilted back in the 
splint-bottomed chair. 

The lengthened afternoon enabled Kenric to return 
from the mill before night-fall, and thus he too had leis- 
ure for the splint-bottomed chair, and a pipe under the 
trees ; for since he came to Little Warrenton, a pipe had 
commended itself to him as being cheaper than cigars. • 
But he smoked in solitude, reading a letter which he 
had received the day before, and which he had no need 
to read, for he knew it by heart. His face was pale and 
stern, and frowning, and did not invite company ; but 
Dr. Griffith was not to be deterred by any frown. 

“See here, Kenric,” said he, planting himself in front 
of the young man, “ I’ve a word to say to you.” 


Penny* Lancaster , farmer. 4 * 

Kenric crushed the letter into his coat-pocket, re- 
moved his pipe and summoned a smile, as he re- 
sponded : 

“Say it! Provided it isn’t quinine or calomel, I’ll 
hear you with pleasure. The time of the year hasn’t yet 
come round for conjuring- with such words as those.” 

“ I’m not for joking,” said the Doctor, sharply. “ It’s 
about Penny. ” 

** What about Penny?” asked Kenric, frowning. He 
knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and faced the Doctor 
resolutely. 

“And I wish I had said it long ago ! ” declared the 
Doctor with energy. “What do you mean, Kenric? 
About Penny, you know ? ” 

“What do I mean P” said Kenric, angrily. “What 
do you mean ? ” 

“It’s a question all the town is asking,” said the Doc- 
tor, growing cool, as Kenric waxed warm. “The 
question I’ve put to you.” 

“Well, her father hasn’t asked it,” said Kenric ; “ and 

if he has confidence enough in me ” 

‘ That’s not the point, ” interrupted the Doctor. * ‘ Old 
Archie Lancaster — good Lord ! What sense do you ex- 
pect from that old brow-beaten puppet ? I don’t question 
your motives — but the effect on the girl — of all this — 
this interest on your part ? Improving her mind. ’Tain’t 
good for her. ” 

“You are absurd,” said Kenric. “Penny is a child. ” 

“ She is not a child. Begging your pardon. She is 
seventeen years and better. ” 

“ Make yourself easy,” said Kenric, with composure. 
“Penny understands me, you may be sure.” 

“It’s what these young bloods call a flirtation,” 
growled the Doctor, as Kenric rose and walked away, 
to the tune of the tavern bell, ringing for tea. ’Twon’t 
hurt him. It s his pastime. But what if Penny’s affec- 
tions are wrecked ? S ’ And as he could not tamely sub- 
mit to such a calamity befalling the girl he loved, he 
determined to leave no effort untried to prevent it. 
Kenric refused to hear him, and he knew the futility of 
appealing to Penny’s inefficient father, but he hoped, in 
desperation, to effect something through Penny’s sisters, 
who had recently returned to the shelter of the tavern 


4 2 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER, 

for a brief season, as was their custom, before under- 
taking a fresh round of visits. 

Old Archibald Lancaster, mindful always that their 
mother was a Donald, had fitted up a private parlor for 
his daughters, to which there was a private entrance 
through a porch covered with vines. To this private 
entrance Dr. Griffith immediately made his way. His 
appetite for the evening meal was annihilated by his 
eagerness to do Penny a service, and he knew very well 
that Penny’s sisters never appeared at the tavern table. 

He found the ladies in their boudoir, as they termed 
the small parlor at the head of the stairs, a room that 
bore some signs of taste and refinement, and was a 
marked contrast to the little den downstairs where 
Penny had her evening lessons. 

Penny’s sisters were handsome women of a some- 
what showy type, with dark hair and eyes, and a 
studied graciousness of demeanor that never failed them. 
Mrs. Lyndham, whom it was the Southern fashion still 
to address as Miss Henrietta, in familiar converse, was 
the more dignified ; Miss Arabella was coquettish. 
They were very busy with their needles, as was usually 
the case when they returned to the tavern, the haven 
where they took refuge for repairs : but they laid aside 
their work, and received the Doctor graciously, though 
they laughed at him behind his back. 

“ I didn’t know you ever called on ladies,” said Miss 
Arabella, with a smile that was meant to be arch. 

"‘Well, 1 don’t, as a rule,” returned the Doctor, 
bluntly ; “ unless they send for me.” 

“And we didn’t send for you! How very kind,” 
said Mrs. Lyndham, sweetly. 

The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair, until it 
stood up all over his head, giving him a very fierce as- 
pect, as he stared at the sisters. 

“I haven’t much time to waste,” said he, in a tone 
meant to be conciliating, but which was oddly aggres- 
sive. “It’s a matter of business brought me to-day.” 

“Here’s my pulse !” cried Miss Arabella, gayly, as 
she rolled back her sleeve and displayed the dimpled 
beauty of her arm. 

“I wish you’d ignore my profession,” said the Doc- 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


43 

tor gruffly. “ I’m here as a man. Full of indignation. 
It’s about your sister Penny.” 

‘‘What about Penny?” Mrs. Lyndham asked, lan- 
guidly, yet not without interest. 

“See here, now,” said the Doctor, calming himself. 
“Your mother was a Donald. And.Penny is yourown 
sister. Your own sister. Where do you think all this 
is going to end ? ” he asked desperately. 

The sisters looked at each other and were silent. 
They had been at home but a few days, yet they under- 
stood him perfectly. 

“It’s no use going to your father, nor to Mrs. Lan- 
caster.” The Doctor never could bring himself to speak 
of old Archie’s second wife as the mother of these girls. 
“But Fve been to him. And I tell you that's no use, 
either. ” 

“ Have you been to Penny, Doctor? ” Miss Arabella 
asked, with a sly smile, and when he hung his head, 
the smile threatened to become a laugh. 

“You’ve been around, and you’ve seen the world,” 
pursued the Doctor, recovering himself, with a frown, 
and ignoring Miss Arabella’s flippant speech ; “ you two 
ought to take care of her. ” 

“A Donald may be trusted to take care of herself,” 
said the widowed sister, serenely. “ Penny will not be 
blind to her own advantage. ” 

“ Good Lord ! ” cried the Doctor, bouncing up. “You 
don’t begin to understand. That Yankee is just amusin’ 
himself. Penny ain’t up to — the ways of — society. 
’Tain’t as if it was you. Can’t you see how it’s goin’ to 
end ? ” he demanded, fiercely, seizing the back of a 
chair, and leaning over it, as if to emphasize what he 
said somewhere in the region of his heart. “That con- 
founded Yankee ’ll skip some day ” 

“And Penny’ll skip with him,” interpolated Miss 
Arabella with satisfaction. 

The Doctor glared at her furiously. “And Penny 
will pine — and pine. She is of that kind,” he said, 
sinking his voice to a whisper. 

“ Why should she pine? The Donald’s have no 
prejudices. If our sister can marry well, we sha’n’t 
object to a Northerner.” 

“ It seems to me,” said the Doctor, angrily, “that 


44 PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 

there isn’t a grain of commonsense among the whole 
lot of you.” 

And he turned and left the sisters to the manipulation 
of their ribbons and flounces, and went out, debating 
with himself whether or not he should speak to Penny, 
though he was conscious of a humiliating cowardice in 
prospect of an interview with that young person. 

The sisters, when they knew themselves alone, looked 
at each other and laughe * 

“I am not going to interfere,” said Mrs. Lyndham. 

“No more shall I,” declared Arabella. “Penny is 
no fool.” 

Dr. Griffith could not make up his mind to seek 
Penny straightway, but he met her unexpectedly in the 
passage that led by the parlor, which he noticed was not 
lighted. 

“What has become of the lessons to-night?” He 
asked, grimly. 

“No lessons to-night, ” answered Penny with placidity. 

“ Mr. Kenric has gone to see Mrs. Standridge. He said 
he had to consult her. ” 

“Ah, indeed ? ” said the Doctor, brightening. Kenric 
must have given up the lessons that evening, he argued, 
in consequence of the remonstrance administered before 
tea ; and if he consulted Mrs. Standridge about Penny, 
Mrs. Standridge, the man of medicine knew full well, 
would give him sound advice, that is to say, advice in 
accordance with Dr. Griffith’s own views. 

His mind thus relieved, Dr. Griffith all at once found 
himself very hungry, and begged to know if he might 
have something to eat. 

“ I reckon so,” said Penny, glancing over her shoul- 
der towards the dining-room ; but she did not offer to 
go and forage for him as Dr. Griffith felt sure she would 
have done, had he been Kenric : but Kenric was gone 
to see Mrs. Standridge, and that was a comfort. 

Mrs. Standridge was crocheting by the light of a shaded 
lamp when Kenric entered her elaborately furnished 
parlor. 

* ‘ All alone ? ” he asked, glancing around the room. 
He had hoped to find her alone. 

“All alone; but very glad to have company,” said 
she, as she threw down her work, and rose to meet him. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


45 

But what is the matter with you ? You don’t look like 
yourself. ” 

Kenric did not answer immediately, but when he had 
taken his seat, he said, with a strained smile : 

‘ ‘ Do you remember your offer to be a mother to me ? ” 

.“Is it advice you want?” Mrs. Standridge asked, 
divided between a vague alarm, and a genuine interest 

“ No, not advice ; it is sympathy I came for. 

“Sympathy?” she faltered, “What is the matter? 
Of course you have my sympathy, whatever has hap- 
pened. ” 

“ I’ve had a letter from Laura.” And Kenric rose and 
walked about the room in great agitation. 

“Is it so unusual to have a letter from Laura ? ” Mrs. 
Standridge asked, with an attempt at playfulness. 

“ Not unusual. She has written to me heretofore, with 
some regularity. But — this is the last I shall ever have 
from her,” and his face quivered so that Mrs. Standridge 
looked away from him, and could find nothing more to 
say than a murmured repetition of the words : 

“The last?” 

“ If I could be sure we should not be interrupted, I 
would like to tell you all about it,” said Kenric. 

“There is nothing to interrupt; Mr. Standridge is 
taking a nap, he won’t wake for an hour. If he comes 
in I’ll tell him to go out again. What about Laura ? ” 
Mrs. Standridge was full of curiosity not unmixed with 
a fear that some deplorable complication threatened to 
make shipwreck of Kenric’s future. 

“ She is married ! Actually married ! ” Kenric groaned. 

“Married?” repeated Mrs. Standridge, struggling to 
mask her satisfaction at this news, though she realized, 
at the same time, that a strong restraining influence 
upon Kenric was lost in his cousin’s marriage. 

“To Mr. Cameron. I don’t know whether you ever 
met him. He has been, longer than I can remember, 
the self-constituted providence of the whole Dent con- 
nection. Would you have believed it of Laura P” Ken- 
ric asked bitterly. 

Mrs. Standridge looked at Kenric with pity in her eyes 
before she replied, impulsively : 

“My friend, I will be frank with you ! It is exactly 
what I would have expected of Laura Dent.” 


46 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


Kenric recoiled. “ And you told me that you liked 
her ? ” he said, reproachfully, 

“ Admire, is the word I should have used. I have 
always admired Laura ; she is the embodiment of judi- 
ciousness.” 

“ You are unjust ! ” exclaimed Kenric. “ And I came 
to you for sympathy ! ” 

“ It is out of my sympathy for you that I speak, my 
poor boy. But I will say this much for Laura ; she 
never married without just reason for the step.” 

Kenric missed the covert sarcasm. 

“Yes,” he said, eagerly; “it was from a sense of 
duty. ” 

Mrs. Standridge felt strongly urged to declare her de- 
testation of people who acted from a sense of duty ; but 
she contented herself with saying : 

“ Laura always had a strong sense of duty.” 

Kenric darted a keen, inquiring glance at her ; but 
for once, Mrs. Standridge’s countenance was impen- 
etrable. 

“You must — you shall do her justice,” he cried eager- 
ly. “Her mother an invalid, her own health never 
strong ; and their means so straitened — her gratitude to 
Mr. Cameron, and her fear of provoking my uncle’s un- 
appeasable wrath against me if she listened to my suit — ■” 

“He is quoting from her letter,” Mrs. Standridge com- 
mented silently, as Kenric paused. 

“Oh, you do not know Laura as I know her/’ he 
continued passionately. “Always thinking of the in- 
terest of others. She entreats me now to return ; "she 
says that in ceasing to be Laura Dent the great obstacle 
to my uncle’s good-will is removed. Dear, dearest 
Laura, I can forgive — I pray she may be happy. It is 
my uncle I can never forgive.” 

He bowed his head in his hands and sobbed aloud. 

Mrs. Standridge put her hand on his arm caressingly. 

“ My dear Morrison,” she said. “ I used to call you 
Morrison, you know, when you were a boy, and I am 
several years older than you. ” 

“She was never engaged to me, you know,” said 
Kenric, controlling himself with effort. 

“No; and she never loved you, really. It is best 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 4 7 

that you should know the truth, and know it at once. 
And you never loved her — really. ” 

Kenric made a movement of impatience. 

“You will find it out for yourself, in time,” Mrs. 
Standridge insisted. “And now let me beg you to fol- 
low Laura’s advice — and mine — and go back to your 
uncle — ’ For Mrs. Standridge was now more than ever 
alive to the danger that lurked in Kenric’s association 
with Penny Lancaster ; such a marriage would be in- 
finitely more obnoxious to old Mr. Kenric than a mar- 
riage with Laura Dent. “ Go back without delay,” she 
urged. 

“Never!” cried Kenric. “I will never be thrust 
back, by any turn of fate.” 

“Do you intend to make Little Warrenton your per- 
manent home?” asked Mrs. Standridge, significantly. 

Kenric frowned. “ I know what you mean,” he said. 
“You are afraid I will marry Penny Lancaster. As if 
I could not see the difference between my cousin Laura 
and a poor little untutored tavern-girl that I am trying 
to help.” 

“I am afraid of that very thing, ” she replied, frankly. 
“I am afraid both for you and for Penny. It would 
never do. Penny is an admirable girl — ” 

“ Yes ; she is ! ” said Kenric, warmly. 

“For her — station, yes. And I hope, some day to 
see her married to some one better suited to her than 
you can ever be. There ! ” 

Kenric smiled, but said nothing ; and if Mrs. Stand- 
ridge had stopped there, she had been wise ; but she 
went on to say : 

“ Of course you know whom I mean. Dr. Griffith is 
deeply in love with her.” 

“Which nobody can deny!” said Kenric, with a 
laugh. 

“A devoted attachment is never a thing for laughter,” 
said Mrs. Standridge, with grave rebuke. 

“Penny isn’t in love with him!” Kenric declared, 
exultantly. 

“ Not yet ! but — ■” 

“You don’t mean to tell me,” Kenric interrupted in 
a tone of intense disgust, “that that unique girl, with her 
originality of character, her superiority to the tavern, is 


48 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


destined to nothing more unusual than a marriage with 
a plodding, commonplace, unprogressive piney-woods 
doctor, years older than she is — ” 

“You will please remember that I married a man 
‘ years older ’ than myself, ” Mrs. Standridge interrupted. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Kenric, adroitly ; “I 
never can remember that Mr. Standridge doesn’t im- 
press one in that way. And he is very different from 
Dr. Griffith. Poor Dr. Griffith ! The idea of Penny — ” 
“ He would make her an excellent husband, ” Mrs. 
Standridge insisted. “He has known her all his life, 
and he has no prejudices to overcome. He understands 
her position perfectly. He knew the Donalds — ” 

“And was his mother a Donald, too?” asked Kenric, 
laughing. 

“No,” Mrs. Standridge replied, with dignified gravity ; 
“ his mother was a Barnet of Habersham, his father was 
a Scotchman. Dr. Griffith is an educated man ; if you 
have remarked it, his English is always that of an edu- 
cated man. I have a great respect for Dr. Griffith. ” 
“Why, so have I,” said Kenric. 

But the idea that he should have taken so much pains 
with Penny to see her become the wife of Dr. Griffith, 
was, for some unaccountable reason, strangely repug- 
nant to him. He sat silent while Mrs. Standridge de- 
scanted on the advantages of so admirable a match ; so 
that when he left she was not without hope that she had 
raised an effectual barrier against that rebound of the 
heart which is supposed to render the victim thereof 
dangerously susceptible. 


CHAPTER VI. 

IT IS THE UNEXPECTED THAT HAPPENS. 

Kenric was but twenty-four, and at twenty-four a 
very small spark may serve to kindle a great flame. He 
returned to his room in Lancaster’s Tavern indignant 
against Mrs. Standridge not only on account of her 
opinion of his cousin Laura, but also because of her 
views regarding Penny Lancaster. He decided that 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 4 g 

Mrs. Standridge was not a just person, and he resolved 
never to go to her again for sympathy. But by dint of 
dwelling on the subject from day to day, he gradually 
came to the conclusion that Mrs. Standridge might be 
right in many points ; he felt compelled to admit that 
the epithet “judicious ” did apply to his cousin Laura, 
though in no derogatory sense ; he began, also, to sus- 
pect that it might be true she had never loved him 
4 ‘ really,” and to hope that his love for her was not of 
the incurable type. Of course he should never forget 
her ; but now that her unquestioned wisdom had placed 
her beyond his reach, he felt a certain comfort in the 
reflection that she had always been to him less a woman 
than a goddess, and as a goddess he might still adore 
her. 

When Kenric had reached this point, which was not 
until some days had passed, he was ready to forgive 
Mrs. Standridge for her judgment of his cousin, but he 
was still resentful of her views regarding Penny Lan- 
caster. He thought it unpardonable that any friend of 
his should ignore the claim he had established upon 
this young girl’s regard. He was not in love with Pen- 
ny, he had never thought of such a thing, but he was 
so much her friend that it vexed him intolerably to have 
her appropriated to Dr. Griffith. He repudiated in- 
dignantly the suggestion that Penny might fall in love 
with himself, for he took great pride in the reflection 
that his bearing towards her had been such as to forbid 
any folly of the kind ; but Penny was his friend, and 
he had no intention of denying himself the consolations 
of friendship. To Penny, therefore, he turned now, for 
sympathy. 

It was about a week after his interview with Mrs. 
Standridge that he brought the evening lessons abruptly 
to an end by closing the books in the midst of a read- 
ing, saying that he wished to tell her something con- 
cerning himself. 

The girl was so startled that she did not answer ; for 
Kenric hitherto, had confined his conversation strictly 
to the subject of her studies. She stared at him with 
dismayed eyes, for she thought that he meant to tell 
her he was tired of teaching her. 

But Kenric, full of his own thoughts, hardly noticed 


5o 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


her look of anxious surprise. “Has it ever occurred to 
you, Penny/’ “ said he, that you don’t know anything 
about me? That for aught you know, I may be a 
fugitive from justice? ” 

“Are you a fugitive from justice ? ” said Penny. Ap- 
parently it did not make the least difference to her if he 
were ; and Kenric could not satisfy himself whether he 
should regard this state of mind as complimentary, or 
the reverse. 

“No/’ he answered, “I call myself a fugitive from in- 
justice.” 

“ Oh ” exclaimed Penny, indignant sympathy in her 
voice and eyes. “Was your uncle unjust to you ? 

• ‘ My uncle ? ” repeated Kenric, in surprise. ‘ ‘ What do 
you know of my uncle ? ” 

“Mrs. Standridge told me.” 

“Told you — when A” 

“That time I went there when Nan was hurt. I 
didn’t ask her. ” 

“And did she tell you about — about a girl I had 
loved ? ” 

“No,” said Penny, with averted eyes; “never a 
word. ” 

“ Well, there was a girl I loved,” Kenric informed her. 

“And don’t you love her still?” ventured Penny, - 
shyly. 

“I don’t know,” said Kenric, with a mirthless laugh. 
“I’ve given her up.” 

“ Did she love you ? ” 

“In a manner, perhaps ; yes.” 

“I don’t believe you have given her up,” said Penny, 
after a pause, in which she seemed to have carefully 
considered the case. “You haven’t given her up in 
your heart, you know,” she added, impulsively, with 
heightened color. 

“Judge ! ” exclaimed Kenric. “She wrote me a let- 
ter the other day, to tell me that she is married to a 
man twice her age, and very rich. She has thrown me 
over.” 

Penny’s face had grown as white as ashes, in which 
her eyes burned with a baleful fire. “Then may she 
come to want and die in misery ! ” said she, with em- 
phasis, as she struck her hands together. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


51 

“Oh! hush! hush !” cried Kenric. “You do not 
know her.” 

“No; nor I don’t want to know her,” said Penny, 
stoutly. “Nor her name, neither. I shall hate her all 
my days, and I don’t want to hate her by name ; ” and 
then she hastily quitted the room, leaving Kenric half- 
dismayed, yet not displeased. Penny had said no more 
than a sister might have said, but a sister would, not 
have gone away from him in that sudden manner. 

Before he saw Penny again, the next day’s mail 
brought Kenric a letter from Miss Fish, and Miss Fish’s 
letter was the little spark that kindled a sudden flame in 
Kenric’s heart. 

Miss Fish had learned his address from his cousin, of 
whose marriage she wrote in terms of so strong appro- 
bation, that it was plain she too thought Kenric’s god- 
dess “judicious.” She gave the young man to under- 
stand, further, that unless he speedily returned there 
was danger of his uncle’s transferring his favor to some 
more distant relative. 

This letter, Kenric tore to pieces for the wind to scat- 
ter about the streets of little Warrenton. “I am not to 
be managed by Miss Fish,” he said. “I am a man, 
and I choose to be independent. I can carve my own 
fortune, and I will not purchase my uncle’s countenance 
and support by an abject surrender.” 

In this state of defiance, his heart turned at once to 
Penny with a sense of security that gave him a feel- 
ing akin to joy. She was no goddess upon a pedestal, 
but a woman, with a woman’s tender and devoted nature, 
and the thought that she might love him was no longer 
to be indignantly rejected ; he rejoiced to believe that 
she did love him, and that he might build with certainty 
upon that love for his future happiness and prosperity. 
Removed from amid the sordid surroundings by which 
her native disposition had been cramped and blighted, 
he argued that Penny would develop into a woman of 
whom any man might be proud ; and here, for once, he 
remembered the blood of the Donalds without any dis- 
position to smile. Marriage, in his present condition 
was out of the question, but he argued that he could 
make his way all the better, and all the more quickly 


52 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


if such a girl as Penny were willing to wait until he 
could have a home ready for her. 

It so happened — as if a kindly fate would give this 
rash young wooer time to consider — that Kenric was 
called away at this time on some business relating to 
the mill, but his purpose became only the more fixed 
in the two weeks thus vouchsafed him for reflection. 
The very afternoon of the day on which he returned, 
seeing Penny walking along the dusty street that led 
towards the wood skirting the town, he hastened after 
her, in full sight of the gossiping crowd assembled 
around the corner drug-store, and supremely indifferent 
to whatever comments his course might give rise to — 
for this was the first time that Kenric had paid Penny 
the compliment of any public attention. 

As for Penny, she was surprised, indeed, but not at 
all embarrassed. She smiled at him from under her 
sun-bonnet, and told him that she was going to the 
^Spring. 4 ‘ Haven’t you ever been there?” she asked, 
with eager interest 

Kenric had never been there. 

“Oh, then you just ought to see it!” she exclaimed 
with enthusiasm. “ Such a pretty place ! ” 

“ Why do you go alone ? ” Kenric felt impelled to ask. 

“I ain’t afraid,” laughed Penny; “and it’s not so 
far.” 

“No ; but I should think you would find companions 
among the other girls?” said Kenric, as it occurred to 
him, for the first time, and not without a sense of satis- 
faction, that Penny seemed to have no friendships. 

“Oh,” said Penny, with a touch of scorn, “other 
girls like to walk the streets ; I like the woods. ” 

“You wouldn’t be willing to live in the city, then? ” 
Kenric asked, with some anxiety. 

“ Never !” Penny answered with brief decision that 
pleased Kenric ; he had always admired the prompti- 
tude of her opinions. 

They walked on in silence until they ascended a little 
slope and came in sight of Penny’s beloved spring, 
across a depression that little Warrenton dignified with 
the name of ravine : here Penny pulled off her bonnet, 
and exclaimed, “Look!” with a ring of irrepressible 
admiration in her voice. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


53 

Kenric looked about him with distinct approval : if 
he could not share Penny’s enthusiasm, he could at least 
enjoy it ; and the little dell that called it forth presented 
just then a spectacle that had for him the attraction of 
novelty. Down by the pool formed by the spring’s 
overflow, in the shadow of a spreading oak, a group of 
negro women were washing clothes. They had a great 
array of tubs, and an immense iron pot, the largest 
Kenric had ever seen, under which was a fire, and 
scattered here and there were several primitive wooden 
benches, formed by driving stout pegs into a circular 
block, with the bark of the tree from which it was cut 
still surrounding it. At one of these benches a woman 
with a heavy paddle was vigorously pounding a shape- 
less mass that she lifted and turned from time to time. 
The air resounded with the blows of the beetle, min- 
gling with loud talking and bursts of laughter, athwart 
which floated the sonorous hymn of an older woman, 
who stood at a tub, apart from the rest, and sang to a 
wild, monotonous, but thrilling chant : 

“ Oh, chillun, de cliay’ot’s a-rollin’, 

A-rolling’ ter de campin’ groun’.” 

“ They’re battling clothes,” said Penny, in brief ex- 
planation to the look of inquiry Kenric turned upon her. 
“ Don’t you call this a heavenly spot ? ” 

“Yes,” said Kenric, amiably; “running water, and 
flickering shadows, and nodding ferns ; it’s all very well 
in its way ; but — it’s rather a small way, Penny. ” 

“I’ve never seen any greater,” said Penny, with a 
sort of sad resentment. 

“ But you may, some day ; I am sure of it ! ” Kenric 
declared. 

Penny smiled, but shook her head. “Wouldn’t you 
like a drink of water? ” she asked suddenly ; and with- 
out waiting for an answer, she darted down the slope. 

Kenric expected that she would go over to the washer- 
women and borrow a cup, but Penny having reached 
the bottom of the slope, ran up the opposite side, near 
the spring, and catching at a pendant magnolia bough, 
broke off a branch. 

‘ Come down ! ” she cried, waving it at him. “These 
make first-rate drinking cups, only they must be used 
on the spot. ” 


54 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


Kenric, upon this invitation, went over to the spring 1 , 
and stood watching her while she gave a dexterous 
twist to one of the broad, stiff leaves, and shaped it 
into a little three-cornered vessel. “There,” said she ; 
“fill that, and drink.” 

“Fill it yourself,” said Kenric, lazily. He was too 
well pleased with the pretty picture she made to wish 
to spoil it. “Fill it yourself, and hand it to me.” 

Penny glanced at him in slight surprise, but she 
obeyed his behest without a shadow of embarrassment. 
She had no coquetry, no self-consciousness, and Kenric, 
as he watched her, enjoyed, for the first time, a thrill of 
genuine, heart-felt admiration. He drank of the first 
cup, and demanded another and another : the perform- 
ance had an idyllic charm that took his fancy captive, 
and he feigned thirst in order to prolong his pleasure. 
But when the nymph of the fountain had twisted and 
filled some half dozen cups for his benefit, he said to 
himself that it was time this pretty play should stop, if 
he would use this opportunity of speaking to Penny 
concerning what now filled his heart. Had Penny been 
a young lady of society, he would have put the last leaf 
in his pocket with an ostentation of sentiment, but with 
this straightforward girl he could lend himself to no 
pretence. He threw the leaf away, saying as carelessly 
as he could : 

“Penny, have you happened to think that this is the 
first time I ever took a walk with you, good friends 
though we be ? ” 

“I suppose you had something better to do,” said 
Penny, with a matter-of-fact simplicity that made Kenric 
smile. 

“ I had a reason for coming here to-day,” he said. 
“There is something I must tell you.” 

She looked a little troubled, but she showed no em- 
barrassment. * ‘ Suppose we go over there in the shade, ” 
she said. “The roots of that oak will be a good seat.” 

Kenric assented, not a little vexed to find himself dis- 
concerted by Penny’s self-possession. 

When they were seated, he put the question abrupt- 
ly : 

“ Penny, if you were a young man with your way to 
make in the world, what would you do? ” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


55 


“Me P I’d have a farm ! ” said Penny, without an 
instant's hesitation. 

“ A plantation, you mean ? And turn slave-driver? ” 
answered Kenric, with something of a sneer. 

“I wouldn’t be mean to my niggers, if I had ’em,” 
answered Penny, serenely. “But I ain’t talking about a 
plantation ; it’s a farm like what I’ve heard my uncle 
Joe tell of that I want to manage. Where you don’t 
have more land than you can handle, and where you 
ain’t bothered with cotton, but can take your time, rais- 
ing everything you need at home, and just enjoy seeing 
things grow.” 

“Do you think you could be happy to spend your 
life, your whole life, in that way ? ” Kenric asked, 
doubtfully. 

“ Happy ? It would be Heaven ! But there is no use 
wishing.” And Penny sighed, profoundly. 

*• I don’t know, ” said Kenric, “life has so much in 
store for one as young as you ; you might marry a 
farmer — ” 

“I don’t want to come by my farm that way,” said 
Penny, stoutly. “And I’m just goin’ on eighteen,” she 
added, rather inconsequently. 

‘ ‘ But if you loved some one very much — eighteen isn’t 
too young,” said Kenric, stammering as he approaehed 
the vital question. 

“ No,” said Penny, evidently considering the point ab- 
stractedly : “Heneretta was married when she was 
sixteen. But she ran away. ” 

“ You wouldn’t run away, Penny ? ” 

“Yes, I would; if I saw cause,” was the astounding 
answer, calmly delivered. 

“X — I — wouldn’t ask you to runaway, Penny,” Kenric 
stammered, in dire confusion. 

“ I know that,” replied Penny, with serene confidence, 
as she turned her calm eyes upon Kenric’s perturbed 
countenance. 

“ But I would ask you to wait until I could give you 
a home of your own,” said Kenric. 

Penny heard him without a tremor or a blush, but 
her eyes took on an expression of infinite pity. She 
was thinking of the girl who had not chosen fo waif for 
him. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


5 6 

“ Great Heaven, Penny!” he burst forth. “Don’t 
you understand ? Would you be willing to marry me— 
when I can offer you a home ? ” 

She did not turn away in blushing confusion ; a look 
of wondering fear, of incredulity, almost of anger, came 
into her eyes, which remained fixed upon his, as she 
drew away her hands, which he would have taken, and 
clasped them lightly above her heart. 

“No, no,” she said, hoarsely. 

“ Dear, dear Penny ! ” 

“ I tell you, no?” cried Penny. “Oh, Mr. Kenric, 
how can you — how can you put such a jest upon me? ” 

“Penny, Penny, I swear to you it is no jest. I love 
you indeed” — and he spoke the truth ; at that moment 
he loved her wildly. “ I never loved any one as I love 
you ; I believe now that I must have loved you all along 
— how else could I have been content here ? I have 
thought of nothing else all the while I was away. Penny, 
Penny, what have you to say to me ? Will you marry 
me one of these days ? ” 

“ No,” said Penny, and turned her face away. 

“Won’t you think of it, Penny? ” Kenric entreated. 

“No,” said Penny, again, inexorably. 

“Don’t you love me even a little?” he demanded 
half angrily. 

“No,” said Penny. 

“What is the matter?” Kenric exclaimed, exasper- 
ated. 

“I don’t love you, I never shall ! ” Penny declared, 
resolutely. “Oh, I wish, I wish you never, never had 
said this to me ! ” 

“Don’t you believe me ? ” said Kenric. 

Penny was silent. 

“ Don’t you believe me ? ” Kenric reiterated. 

“ Oh, let us go home ! ” cried Penny, piteously. “And 
forget — forget — ” She rose and walked hurriedly towards 
the path. 

‘ ‘ One word more ! ” exclaimed Kenric, striding after 
her. “You love some one else ? ” 

“ Me, love ?” said Penny, with fine scorn. 

“Dr. Griffith?” suggested Kenric, in a jealous rage. 

Penny replied by an indignant look that spoke vol- 
ppie$ of denial. - ‘ 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER . 


57 

“Tell me this, then ! ” cried Kenric, with savage im- 
petuosity, as he remembered the reputation her sisters 
had for seeking wealthy husbands. “ Would you marry 
me if I had money?” 

“No,” said Penny. 

Kenric looked at her, and saw that her face was pale 
and her hands trembling ; but she wore a resolute air. 

“You are not even sorry,” he sighed. 

“Oh, I am ! I am ! ” Penny answered, almost with a 
sob. “ Let us go home, and forget — forget — •” 

The washer-women had already completed their day’s 
labor, and were toiling up the little slope in single file, 
poising their loaded tubs upon their heads, and followed 
by a little rabble of negro children with dinner-buckets 
and wash-boards. The sun was low in the west and 
through the woods the cows of Little Warrenton, lean 
and scraggy, and tinkling discordant bells were strag- 
gling home. 

Kenric felt oppressed with a supreme sadness ; a home- 
sickness more intense than he had ever known weighed 
upon him. He had felt so secure of his hold upon 
Penny’s heart, so utterly unprepared to hear her say no, 
and persist in it, that his confidence in himself now sud- 
denly gave way : his resolute will seemed to forsake 
him, and all the future looked a blank. One question 
repeated itself in his brain, continuously : How was he 
to live on in Little Warrenton deprived of his interest in 
Penny? 

The harsh clamor of the tavern bell, ringing for sup- 
per, as the evening meal was called, though served at 
dusk, made itself heard as these two came in silence up 
the dusty street 

When they came to the piazza steps, Penny spoke. 
“ We won’t have any lessons to-night,” she said, with- 
out a tremor ; but there was in her voice a tone of dis- 
missal that did not escape Kenric’s sensitive ear. 

“It is the beginning of the end,” he thought, bitterly, 
but he only bowed and smiled, and said; “At your 
pleasure.” 


58 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER, 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE VISION OF THE WORLD. 

It did not escape Dr. Griffith’s notice that Kenric had 
accompanied Penny in her woodland walk, and the 
discovery that the lessons were to be omitted that even- 
ing- was rather a perplexity than a consolation. Could 
he but have found Penny, he would willingly have neg- 
lected his patients for the sake of learning something of 
the state of affairs between herself and Kenric ; but 
Penny was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Lancaster, when 
inquired of, gave it as her opinion that Penny had re- 
tired to the private apartments dedicated to the Misses 
Lancaster. 

“ She’s one o’ the Donalds, you know, ” said the step- 
mother, sourly; “an’ sooner or later the family taste is 
boun’ to show itself. Penny has mostly took to the 
woods ; but maybe she begins to count herself a young 
lady now that Miss Arabella has got engaged, though 
it’s a long-lingering engagement, ‘cordin’ to my notions.” 

But Penny had not sought the privacy of that little 
parlor upstairs, to which in common with her sisters 
she had a right, though she never claimed it : Penny 
was at the farthest end of the weed-grown garden, in- 
dustriously re-potting her geraniums by the light of the 
stars, and the tears were streaming unheeded down her 
cheeks. 

Dr. Griffith had to content himself with scowling at 
Kenric, which Kenric was too self-absorbed to see. 

Within' the next few days, this “ braw wooer ” realized 
more keenly than he would have thought possible, that 
life in Little Warrenton was no longer worth the living. 
He went about his duties at the mill in a perfunctory, 
mechanical fashion, and sedulously avoided Mrs. Stand- 
ridge and her friends. His thoughts were persistently 
busy with the question whether or not he should offer 
to resume the lessons with Penny. The more Kenric 
thought of it ? the more was he persuaded that a young 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


59 

man with his way to make in the world, could wish no 
better helpmeet than Penny Lancaster. And despite 
the insistency of her denial, his vanity counselled him 
that Penny could not but love him. He decided, at last, 
after a debate of ten days or more, that the lessons must 
go on, if only to prevent impertinent comment and 
inquiry. 

Kenric was tilted back in a splint-bottomed chair 
against the China-tree that shaded the sidewalk, when 
he came to this decision. It was late in the afternoon, 
an idle hour with the town usually, but he had been left 
to meditate undisturbed, for the post-office was now the 
attraction, and there the crowd began to thicken as the 
long-drawn notes of a bugle announced the advent of 
the mail that three times a week wrought a sub-acute 
excitement in the town of Little Warrenton. The old 
hound on the end of the tavern piazza set up his accus- 
tomed sympathetic howl ; the Lancaster boys ceased 
their game of marbles and gathered on the steps ; old 
Archie came out with a hospitable smile, hopeful of 
guests, but prepared by long experience for disappoint- 
ment ; Mrs. Lancaster, hiding the defects of her untidy 
dress with a ragged silk scarf, lounged in the doorway, 
behind a. half-grown negro girl, who bore the youngest, 
wide-eyed scion of the House of Lancaster in her arms ; 
and all stood peering down the street, where presently, 
in a cloud of yellow dust, the clumsy coach, drawn by 
four bony horses, rattled past the tavern to the post- 
office. The rusty mail-bag — there was but one — was 
tossed out by the driver with a practiced dexterity, and 
caught by the post-master with an air of importance that 
custom could not stale. The coach then disappeared 
around the corner, to the stables, to return in the course 
of a lingering half-hour, with fresh horses ; the post- 
master brought out the rusty bag, he and the driver 
went through the ceremony of toss and catch, the whip 
was cracked, the horses sprang forward, the old hound 
howled again — and Little Warrenton’stri- weekly pageant 
was over. 

Kenric had witnessed this scene repeatedly and 
always with impatient wonder at the unvarying interest 
it excited. To him nothing made the dull place seem so 
petty, so remote, so aimless, as this slight contact with 


6o 


PENNY LANCANSER , PARMER. 


the outer world. Listlessly he sat watching the cloud 
of dust in which the coach disappeared on its way to the 
Florida border, and wondered, with a home-sick weari- 
ness when he should shake off the dust of Little Warren- 
ton and roll away triumphantly in the rays of the setting 
sun ; and then he smiled as he remembered that he 
would depart in no glory of the sun-set, but in the dim, 
gray dawn, with the coach that went northward — some 
day. For surely, he thought, whether or not he mar- 
ried Penny, it was never written that he should waste 
his life in Little Warrenton. 

“ You don't appear to be expectin’ nothin’ by this 
mail ? ” said the druggist’s clerk, as he handed Kenric a 
letter in passing. 

“Thank you ; no, I don’t think I was expecting a let- 
ter,” Kenric replied, glancing in some surprise at the 
unknown handwriting of the address. 

His surprise increased when upon opening the en- 
velope he found a check for a larger sum of money than 
he had seen since he took his independent course. The 
words accompanying the check were few indeed, but 
Kenric turned pale as he read, and sank back in his 
chair. With what tumult of heart and brain did he read 
and re-read those brief, decided words summoning him 
away ! He lifted his head and looked around ; all 
Little Warrenton was transfigured in his eyes, and in 
that instant Penny was forgotten ! He rose impetuously, 
and walked with hurried strides towards the tavern. 

“Kenric has got news that seems to kinder stagger 
him to tote it,” remarked the druggist’s clerk to Dr. 
Griffith, lingering near the piazza-steps. 

The Doctor expressed his feelings by a growl. 

Kenric, unconscious of the Doctor’s presence, went 
up the steps, and then he turned and looked up and 
down the street, and across to the Court-house square, 
and the drug-store on the corner with its ambitious over- 
sized mortar and pestle, and its huge green bottles in the 
dingy window. There was a look in his face that ap- 
pealed irresistibly to Dr. Griffith’s sympathy. 

“ Hello, Kenric ? No bad news, I hope ? ” said he. 

Kenric came back to earth with a start. “Both bad 
and good,” he answered, with a faint smile. “I shall 
leave Little Warrenton by to-morrow’s stage.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. Q 1 

The Doctor straightened himself up as if he had re- 
ceived a blow. 

“I think it is time,” he said, gravely. 

And then Kenric remembered that his escape from 
the irksomeness of Little Warrenton meant farewell to 
Penny ; a moment before he had been full of a wild 
triumph of joy that he was looking upon this stagnant, 
aimless, hopeless spot for the last time by the light of 
day ; he had deliberately surveyed his surroundings, 
lingering over each wearisomely familiar detail to exult 
in the thought that never again should his eyes rest on 
all this array of commonplace ; but the thought of Penny 
gave him pause. Perhaps Dr. Griffith was right ; it was 
time that he should go. When Penny said No, he had 
been indignant, angry, and sorely wounded ; but now, 
strange contradiction of the human heart ! the sudden 
widening of his horizon dwarfed the tavern girl’s attrac- 
tions ; he was no longer the young man with his way to 
make in the world, but once again the acknowledged 
heir to a great fortune, of which he must come into 
possession at no distant day. If Penny had said Yes, 
he would have abided by that word ; but she said No, 
and he felt that he had made an escape, though he 
almost despised himself for thinking so, even while he 
rejoiced. 

“ I say it is time,” repeated the Doctor, annoyed, and 
suspicious at Kenric’s silence. 

“I understand you, Doctor,” Kenric returned, lightly. 

‘Still harping on my daughter.’” 

“ Pish ! ” said the Doctor. “She’s not my daughter ; 
if she were — But I’d give you to remember I’m not so 
old as I seem.” And he was moving angrily away, 
when Kenric, with extended hand cried to him : 

“ Stay, Dr. Griffith ; let me bid you good-bye. I may 
not see you again ; and in parting let me tell you that I 
shall always be Penny’s friend, but you will be more 
some day — ” 

“ Nonsense,” interrupted the Doctor, fidgetting, but 
evidently pleased. “ Why do you say that? ” 

“I am gifted with the power of vaticination on the 
eve of my departure. I read the future that shall be. 
Good-bye, Doctor, I’ve always liked you, though you 
haven't always liked me.” And Kenric passed into the 


62 


PENNY LANCASTER. PARMER. 


dingy parlor where, as the lamp was already lighted, he 
hoped to find Penny. 

“Confound him ! Yes, I’ve always liked him” mut- 
tered Dr. Griffith. ‘ ‘ Even when I haven't wanted to. 
That is what worried me on the girl’s account. Glad 
he’s going. ” 

When Penny entered the dimly lighted parlor, and 
found Kenric sitting in deep thought beside the table 
with his head on his hand, she thought he was ill. 

“ You’ve gone and got the fever again, Mr. Kenric ! ’’ 
she said, with a tremor in her voice. “ Let me send for 
Dr. Griffith?” 

“ No, Penny ; it’s not the fever ; Eve had — news.” 

“Bad news? ” queried Penny, in a hushed A^oice. 

“ My uncle has sent for me,” replied Kenric, reluc- 
tantly. Penny had said No, and yet he dreaded the 
effect this information might have upon her. 

“And you must go to him — right aAvay,” said she 
promptly. It was an assertion, not an inquiry, and 
Kenric felt a little hurt. 

“I did not think you Avould be so ready — so eager to 
speed my departure, Penny,” he said, reproachfully. 

“ It is because I wish you well,” she returned, in a 
Ioav voice. “Must you go to-morrow? ” 

“Yes, to-morrow. Fortunately, it is the regular 
stage day. My uncle is ill ; too ill to write himself. 
He dictated his letter to his man of business ; and my 
great fear is that I may be too late to see him again. ” 

“It is a pity you ever left him,” said Penny. 

“ Do you think so, Penny ? ” he hazarded, rashly. 

‘ ‘ Let me go do your packing, ” said Penny, appar- 
ently unmoved. She had made him her especial charge 
for so long that it did not occur to her he could pack for 
himself. . 

“You are very good,” said Kenric. “Time presses, 
you knoAv ; and if you will just throw my things 
together, I’ll run round and say good-bye to Mrs. 
Standridge. ” 

Mrs. Standridge was frankly glad that he was going, 
“ glad on every possible account, ” she said. 

“Well,” returned Kenric, “I forgWe you.” 

“And Penny?” 

“Penny?” said Kenric, in resentful memory of 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


6 3 

Penny’s self-possession. “Penny is all right; she’ll 
marry Dr. Griffith one of these days.” 

‘ ‘ Why clo you say that ? ” 

“To please you.” 

“Iam glad you are going away, ” said Mrs. Stand- 
ridge again. 

And Kenric, having taken leave of her, returned to 
the tavern, where he found the whole Lancaster family 
assembled to bid him good-bye. Even Miss Arabella 
and Mrs. Lyndham descended from the seclusion of 
their private apartments to meet him in the tavern 
parlor. 

One and all, they were so sorry he was going, so 
eager to know when he would return — for each and all 
cherished the belief that some day he would return to 
claim Penny. 

“But where is Penny?” Kenric asked, when he had 
shaken hands all around. 

Nobody could answer; search failed to reveal her, 
and Kenric retired, convinced that she did not intend to 
say good-bye to him. 

But it was Penny, faithful Penny, that called him in 
the gray dawn ; and when he went down stairs, Penny 
was by the door in the dingy hall, where a flickering, 
smoky lamp made darkness visible. Kenric saw that 
she had a cup in one hand and a coffee-pot in the 
other. 

“You must drink this,” she said. “I made it It’s 
better than you’ll get in the dining-room.” 

Kenric took the cup. “Oh, Penny,” he said, — and 
his voice shook — “ what a good, kind girl you are!” 
And yet how glad he was she had said No ! 

“Drink it,” said Penny, peremptorily; and Kenric 
obeyed. 

When he had swallowed the coffee, she set the cup 
and the coffee-pot on the floor, and looked at him with 
a mute distress that went nigh to make havoc with his 
prudence. “ Penny,” he faltered, and would have taken 
her hand ; but Penny, who thought he meant to say 
good-bye, drew back. 

“Not yet,” she said, with pathetic emphasis ; “it is 
not yet quite time.” 


64 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


Kenric shivered. What if, after all, Penny loved 
him ? But she had said No. 

“I suppose, said Penny, recovering her matter-of-fact 
manner, “that you will be very rich ? As rich as Mrs. 
Perry Standridge ! ” 

“ I shall be rich enough,” said Kenric. He did not 
tell her that compared with his wealth, Mrs. Perry 
Standridge’s modest means might be counted poverty. 

“ Rich enough to travel ? ” asked Penny. “To cross 
the ocean — Europe — ” she ended with a gasp, realizing 
dimly the vast distance that was beginning already to 
stretch between herself and Kenric. 

The young man nodded, his own heart too full for 
speech, not because he perceived the girl’s agitation, 
but because the great world seemed suddenly opening 
wide before him ; and the joy of anticipated travel 
choked his utterance. 

“Well, I am glad ! ” cried Penny bravely, her cheeks 
aglow, and her eyes full of fire. “ You won't hanker 
after that girl. ” 

Kenric winced. This was a speech that puzzled him 
exceedingly and made him decidedly glad that he was 
going away. He left her abruptly and went to the 
door : it seemed to him that the stage was very long in 
coming. 

“ Yes,” said Penny, with feeling, “I am glad for your 
good fortune, even though I should never see you 
again ! ” 

Kenric came back and sat down beside her, and just 
then the stage rattled up to the door. 

Penny sprang to her feet. “Good-bye!” she said, 
hurriedly : she was eager to have the parting over. 

Kenric took both her hands. 

“Penny,” he said, and his voice shook, “I shall 
never forget — I might have died here, but for you. I 
make no promises, because as yet nothing is defined in 
my future, but I do not mean to cease to be your 
friend. Good-bye, and God bless you ! ” And before 
he was himself aware of what he would do, he bent 
down and kissed her. 

“Come now, Mr. Kenric! Ready sir?” old Archie 
was shouting from without. 

“ Oh, I shall miss you ! ” Penny sighed, clasping her 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER , 65 

hands fervently as Kenric released them ; but she said 
this brightly, and she shed no tear. She had always 
known that some day she and this friend must part ; 
into her reasonable mind the thought of marrying Morri- 
son Kenric had never entered Yet she could not bear 
to witness the departure of the stage, and as she turned 
away from the door, she pulled her shawl over her head 
to shut out the sound of the wheels ; and Kenric who 
saw this, thought she was cold and sleepy, and he sank 
back, the solitary passenger in the swaying coach, not 
a little comforted by the girl s matter-of-fact acceptance 
of circumstances. 

Penny was cold indeed, with a strange chill at her 
heart, but sleepy she was not. Her first thought was 
to go to Kenric’s deserted room, and appropriate some 
memento of him, if, perchance, any possession of his 
had been left behind. She had packed his trunk her- 
self, but now she remembered that she had neglected to 
look into a small box-closet on the side of the chimney, 
where she had put his medicines when he was ill. He 
had defiantly thrown out every vial and every pill-box, 
the first day he went down-stairs, but Penny, thrusting 
her hand into the farthest corner, came in contact with 
a clumsy pint bottle, the seal unbroken. It contained 
brandy, forgotten after that long attack of fever. Penny 
took it away and hid it in her own room. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LITTLE WARRENTON NO MORE ! 

Penny had spoken truly when she said she should 
miss her friend ; she missed him even more than she 
had supposed she should. Such education as he had 
given her removed her, in a measure, from companion- 
ship with her family, and yet, lacking the stimulus of 
Kenric’s instruction, she lost interest in study. A cruel 
sense of isolation took possession of her ; day by day 
she felt more keenly the aimlessness and hopelessness 
of her existence, and many a time, lying awake through 
the still watches of the night, when she saw, as in a 


66 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


vision, the blank and barren years of a long future, 
would she wring her hands and cry out in anguish, 
“Oh, that I were a man to shape my own life ! ” 

As days and weeks went by, and there came no 
news from Ken ric, her family attributed her restlessness 
and depression to disappointment ; but disappointment 
had very little to do with her state of mind. She was 
not looking for a letter from Kenric : why should a 
man to whom the vast world was opening its portals, 
take thought of so infinitesimal a corner as Little War- 
renton ? It was the keen need of definite occupation 
that beset her ; for Penny was no longer a' child, and 
her practical spirit refused any more to find permanent 
gratification in futile wandering through the woods and 
fields. The creative faculty, always a marked trait in 
strong characters, argued her to be up and doing; and 
Penny, following the bent of her genius, fell to work 
upon the garden, to the great scandal of her step-mother, 
who having fixed it in her own mind that Kenric must 
return some day to marry the girl he had befriefided, 
was sorely vexed that she should “tan up her skin and 
rough her hands.” 

. “ Why she can’t nuss up her complexion like Arabella 
and Heneretta, I dunno,” complained Mrs. Lancaster. 
“She’s got no right toe pizen her prawspects, when 
here’s her family to profit by her luck. The boys is 
Lancasters, if they ain’t Donalds.” 

But as time went on, this ambitious mother of the 
Lancaster boys began to lose faith in Penny’s luck ; 
the girl hadn’t the “management” that distinguished 
her sisters, Mrs. Lancaster thought, or she would have 
made sure of “that Yankee. ’""^For November came, but 
brought no news of Kenric, and Mrs. Lancaster’s soul 
grew bitter. It seemed intolerably hard that her boys 
should have to forego the advantage that ought to ac- 
crue to them from their sister’s marriage with such a 
man as Kenric. .She felt that her children had been, in 
a certain sense, defrauded, and that Penny was to blame. 
But she nursed her wrath and indignation a long time 
before giving expression to it. contenting herself with 
opposing everything this disappointing step-daughter 
did or essayed to do. 

Penny, with broad and solemn views of duty and 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


67 


responsibility, would fain have striven to bestow some 
useful training on those rough young cubs, the sons of 
her querulous step-mother ; but Mrs. Lancaster was a 
jealous parent ; she would brook no influence over her 
children that was not in harmony with her own, and 
in no long time she had created in the boys a spirit of 
defiance towards their half-sister that forced her to 
abandon all effort for their improvement And yet Mrs. 
Lancaster was a most religious woman, loving long 
prayers and longer sermons, and doleful hymns, a firm 
believer in the power of the Devil. 

In this faith had Penny, too, grown up ; a religion of 
threats that annihilated all trust, and placed her at an 
immense distance from her Creator. When she saw 
herself baffled in all her efforts to make something of 
her barren life in the home where Providence had 
placed her, she knew not where to turn for solace and 
strength. She felt herself enveloped in a great darkness, 
and grope as she might, no ray of light cheered the 
desperate gloom. 

One friend she had who was penetrated by the keen- 
est sympathy for her. Dr. Griffith, without in the least 
comprehending her, saw and understood much of the 
discomfort of her position. He had studied Penny with 
a jealous watchfulness ever since Kenric’s departure, 
and from believing in bitterness of soul that she was 
breaking her heart for the faithless Yankee, he had suc- 
ceeded in persuading himself that she had forgotten 
Kenric as completely as Kenric had forgotten her. 
Under this persuasion he allowed himself to hope that 
Penny could be induced to look upon himself with 
favor. He was very much in love with her, and for 
that very reason, immeasurably afraid of her. He had, 
therefore, the unwisdom to open his heart to old Archie, 
and old Archie, as in prudence bound, laid the case 
before Mrs. Lancaster. 

This was a few days before Christmas, and as 
nothing had yet been heard from Kenric, Mrs. Lancas- 
ter was decidedly of the opinion that he had given 
Penny the everlasting go-by. ” Her . surprise and 
satisfaction, when she heard that Dr. Griffith wished to 
marry Penny were unbounded. 

“ My Lawd ! ” she exclaimed. “A fool for lucx, to 


68 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


be sure ! Who’d have expected the like for Penny ? 
She ain’t got one grain o’ common-sense, that girl ain’t. 

It would be just like her to turn up her nose at Dr. 
Griffith, and there’s Heneretta would take him at the 
drop of a hat. I dunno what sort o’ stuff Penny’s made 
out of; but it’s your duty as a pay rent, Mr. Langster 
toe cawmpel that hard-headed girl to listen to reason — 
onless you want her onto your hands an everlastin' 
ole maid.” 

But Penny took a different view of the case. She 
declared that she would not marry Dr. Griffith ; and 
neither her step-mother’s vituperation, nor the remon- 
strances of her sisters availed to move her. 

Miss Arabella, being the eldest sister, and looking 
forward to her own marriage in the near future, con- 
sidered herself competent to give sage counsel, and her 
advice was that Dr. Griffith should himself speak to 
Penny. “You never should have gone to pa,” she 
said to him.” But it isn’t too late yet, in my opinion.” 

As a drowning man snatches at straws, so Dr. 
Griffith snatched at the hope held out in this hint. He 
sought a personal interview with Penny, in wffiich, with 
a humility and a self-distrust most touching, he declared 
his inalienable love for her. 

It is sad to relate that Penny could not appreciate 
this good man’s tenderness and fidelity. She hated his 
uncouth homeliness, and she could not understand how 
a man almost old enough to be her father could wish to 
marry her ; moreover she was very angry with Dr. 
Griffith because his offer of marriage had subjected her 
to unmitigated condemnation. 

“No; I don’t love you,” said hard-hearted Penny. 

“ And I am not going to marry you, I don’t care what 
they all say. It is just mean and horrid of you to set 
’em all against me this way. And if I get sick I shan’t 
take your old physic, and I hope I may die, just to spite 
you. ” 

But it was Kenric, not Penny, who came in for the 
Doctor’s wrath. 

“ It’s that unutterable Yankee,” he said to old Archie, 
when he reported Penny’s discouraging speech. 

Mrs. Lancaster thought so too, in the bitterness of 
her heart, and Penny’s rude young brothers taunted her 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


69 

when the mail came in. “Aha, Miss Pen !” they cried, 
thrusting out their tongues, wagging their heads and 
rolling their eyes. “Mr. High-and-Mighty thinks no 
mo’ of you than of any piney-woods gopher he might 
ha, cotched and tamed.” 

“And why should he?” retorted Penny, irately. 
“ Anybody may see that he is of different clay.” 

“And you a Donald ! ” shrieked her sisters. 

“ I don’t care ! ” 

“ If there’s anythin’ on this earth more despisable in 
my sight than any other thin’,” said Mrs. Lancastsr, 
solemnly, “it is stuck up furrin trash.” 

“ He isn’t a foreigner ! ” gasped Penny, infuriated. 

“ I say he is ; and don’t you answer me back. His 
ways wasn’t like our ways, an’ if that’s not bein' a fur- 
riner, it comes toe the same thin’. Much good has he 
done us, makin’ Penny so up-lifted.” 

“That’s so, Penny,” her father mildly assented. 
“You’d better forget him.” 

‘ ‘ I will never forget him while I live ! ” Penny 
declared. “I never expect to see him again, I never 
expect to hear from him. I understand, if none of you 
do, that he belongs to a different sphere. ” 

“Speer?” repeated Mrs. Lancaster, contemptuously. 
“ Don’t you let me hear no more of no ‘ speer ’ ” 

But Penny’s sisters, rich in experience, refused to give 
literal acceptance to Penny’s utterances about Kenric. 
“She is dealing in evasions!” they declared, and 
feeling that they had a right to know the truth, they 
questioned her closely. 

“Penny,” said Miss Arabella, “come now, make 
honest confession : did Mr. Kenric ever say anything to 
make you think him in love with you ? ” 

Penny remained obstinately silent, but her tell-tale 
face converted suspicion to certainty. 

“And you let him slip through your fingers, you 
miserable little goose ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Lyndham. “I 
could shake you out of your shoes ! You are not 
worthy to be a Donald. You deserve nothing better 
than to hang on at this tavern all your days. A girl 
with so little ambition.” 

“I tell you,” cried Penny, angrily, “I know my own 


y 0 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

affairs. I wouldn't marry Mr. Kenric if he asked me, so 
there, now ! ” 

“Neither Dr. Griffith nor Mr. Kenric ! ” said her sister. 
“You will repent your fastidiousness, one of these 
days.” 

The constant repetition of such taunts irritated Penny 
inexpressibly. As for Kenric’s love-making, she had 
put that out of her thoughts, but the memory of Kenric’s 
friendship was her one sacred possession, and she could 
not endure to have others meddle with it. Why could 
they not keep silent about his silence ? She could be 
content to let him pass out of hex life, leaving only that 
pleasant memory of an ended friendship. 

So thought Penny in all honesty : nevertheless, as 
Christmas drew near, her heart sank with the two-fold 
burden of the recollection of the Christmas a year ago 
which his kindness made glad, and the certainty that no 
memento from him would brighten this Christmas for 
her. She did not complain because he consigned her 
to oblivion, but she felt it to be intolerable that because 
she was consigned to oblivion, she should have to hear 
the reproaches of her sisters, the jeers of her brothers, 
and the taunts of the step-mother who had always held 
her cheap. Dr. Griffith had interfered — so Penny re- 
garded the course he had taken — to complicate matters, 
and add to her distress : why should they all be so 
bent upon her marrying Dr. Griffith ? Ever since the 
day he had spoken to her father, she had endured per- 
secution ; but of one thing she was sure — she would not 
marry Dr. Griffith. 

So Penny went to bed on Christmas Eve, full of bitter- 
ness against her fate. She hated the coming day ; she 
almost wished she might die; it was certain no one 
would miss her, she thought, for, alas ! Dr. Griffith had 
failed to inspire her with any faith in his attachment. 
She had nothing, nothing to look forward to, not even 
the pleasure of the day. She sat up in the darkness, 
clasping her knees and moaning in anguish of spirit. 

Her sisters in the next room, who were expecting to 
dine on the morrow with a large company at Mrs. 
Perry Standridge’s, called to her, crossly ; “For mercy’s 
sake, don’t keep up such a fuss ! ” 

Penny slipped out of bed and shut the door between 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


7 * 

them, and lay down again with a sense of utter desola- 
lation. In that one little act she seemed to have cut 
herself off from her sisters forever. “ Oh, that I were a 
man ! ” she sighed to herself. “If I were a man, I 
could not be less a woman to my sisters than I am. ” 

Thus in the dead midnight, the thought came to her 
to go forth and push her own way. It was a bold 
thought for a Southern girl in those days, and it made 
her spring up wildly in her bed and gasp for breath, as 
though she had been suddenly plunged into a keener, 
freer atmosphere. It made her tremble in every fibre, 
not with the coward’s tremor, but with the sympathetic 
vibration of a dauntless spirit, brought suddenly face to 
face with a high emprise. 

“I will take my life in my hands and go/” she 
whispered to herself, with a wild sense of freedom 
that seemed to lend her wings. She did not debate the 
question an instant; the resolve came with the thought ; 
for to this end, unconsciously to Penny, had all the mid- 
night throes of her cogitations tended. 

In the first gray glimmer of the dawn, she rose, tied 
her scant possessions into a bundle, the heart of which 
was that bottle of French brandy with the seal un- 
broken ; little dreamed she then for what end she 
cherished this memento of her vanished friend with 
almost superstitious care. 

With this bundle in her arms and an old shawl drawn 
around her shoulders, she crept in her stockings, 
through the dark and narrow tavern passages, and down 
the stairs, and crossed the threshold of her father’s house 
for the last time. On the piazza steps she sat down and 
put on her shoes, and then passed out into the world to 
seek her fortune. 

Penny was but eighteen, and in her inexperience she 
did not perceive that she was taking an irrevocable 
step, that she was, in effect, separating herself from her 
family forever. This departure without leave-taking 
gave her no pang of heart or conscience, for the thought 
that she might never see her father or her sisters again 
did not once present itself amid the rush and tumult of 
overpowering emotions that possessed her from the mo- 
ment the idea of flight suggested itself. Strong as was 
her desire to test her own powers in the struggle of 


72 


PENNY LANCASTER^ PARMER. 


life, the horizon of her hopes was as yet so very limited 
that Penny could not feel herself severed from her 
father s household. She had, indeed, a definite goal in 
view when she left Lancaster’s Tavern, in the glimmer- 
ing dawn of that Christmas morning, but it was only 
twenty miles away, at the Cross-roads store, kept by 
her uncle Joe. To Penny this Cross-roads store seemed 
a specific part of the great world ; for with the excep- 
tion of two or three short visits to her uncle in her 
childhood, she had never been farther than a mile 
away from her home in all the eighteen years of her 
life ; and it almost seemed to her, now, as she left the 
little town behind her, that she was passing into another 
planet. But there was no weight of regret upon her 
spirits ; she ran, not because she feared pursuit, but be- 
cause all her energies seemed to urge her forward to 
meet that new and fuller life beckoning to her. 

It was a lonely road she had to travel, through a vast, 
level tract of pine forest, not a settlement of any kind, 
not even a cabin along the entire route ; but Penny was 
not afraid ; she was shy, but she was no coward, and 
she had a large faith in the simple folk of that primitive 
region. 

Fortunately, the day was mild and bright, and Penny, 
in her excited state, was long unconscious of hunger or 
fatigue ; but she must have abandoned all hope of arriv- 
ing at her uncle’s before dark, had she not been over- 
taken, about noon, by a man with an ox-cart. She saw 
him from a distance, winding his way through the wide 
spaces among the sighing pines, and he came out into 
the road just where Penny was passing. He was a sal- 
low, lank, long-haired man in home-spun clothes, with 
a blanket over his shoulders, and on his head a battered 
straw hat. He greeted Penny first with a stolid stare, 
then a nod, then a sort of grunt, and Penny, mustered 
the daring to ask him whither he was bound. 

“ Lankster’s Cross-roads,” was the brief response. 
“Gee! Haw!” 

“I am going there too,” ventured Penny. “I’d like 
to get there before night.” 

The man eyed her askance a few moments before he 
replied : 

“ You’ll have to trot spry.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 

Penny had hoped for the offer of a ride, but she was 
not abashed by the man’s obtuseness. “I’ve a silver 
half-dollar I’ll give you,” said she, “ if you’ll take me 
in your cart.” 

# The man gave her another side-long, lingering glance, 
his preternaturally grave face puckering into a reluct- 
ant, flitting smile, and said, briefly, but not uncourt- 
eously, as he halted his ox : 

“Git in.” 

Penny thankfully obeyed. 

“ Reckon ye don’ know Joe Lankster none, ef ye air 
countin' on a welcome,” said the man, glancing over 
his shoulder at her, after they had jolted on in silence for 
some distance. “ He’s one of them sort don’t set 
much by women folks. He’s gwine on forty, and a 
bachelor, an’ like enough to stay so. Air ye any on his 
kin ? ” 

“ I’m his niece,” said Penny. 

“ Oh — ho ?” said the man, and was silent thereafter 
for the rest of the journey. 

By sun-down they came within sight of the Cross- 
roads store. At the first glimpse Penny caught of the 
smoke curling from the chimney, she drew forth her 
silver half-dollar, all the money she had in the world, 
but she was ready to pay it right royally, for she did 
not wish her uncle to be charged with the expense of 
her journey. 

But the man shook his head, and refused even to look 
at the coin. 

“ I don’t charge nothing fur a lift,” said he, with rough 
kindliness. “Ef Lankster’s a mind to stand treat 
when I git thar, it’ll be all right ; ” and thereupon, he 
became stolidly blind and deaf and dumb to all further 
urging, so that when they stopped in front of Joe Lan- 
caster’s wayside store, Penny, perforce, returned her 
money to her pocket, and stiff with cold and fatigue, 
and faint with hunger, dismounted. 


74 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


CHAPTER IX. 

GENTLEMAN JOE. 

Mr. Joseph Lancaster, dressed in what the people of 
that region called “sto’-bought does,” whose gloss 
was all in the seams, was resting his tall length against 
one of the posts of the piazza in front of his domicile, 
vigorously fiddling in honor of the day. His fiddle was 
his hobby, and he made it do unstinted duty on all fes- 
tive occasions. Others might celebrate Christmas by 
drinking whiskey and firing guns, but Gentleman Joe, 
as he was called, half in derision, and half in admiration, 
though not averse to his toddy, and admirably tolerant 
of uproar and confusion, delighted to make the day 
merry with many a fine tune, lapping his senses in an 
elysium of sound that rendered him oblivious of all 
mundane affairs. And this was his blissful condition 
when his niece, Penthesilea, presented herself at his 
door. His long, fodder-colored hair was tucked be- 
hind his ears, and hung in wiry locks over his coat- 
collar ; his beard of the same dingy hue caressed his 
fiddle, while his unwearied right arm deftly plied the 
bow, and the fingers of his left hand nimbly touched off 
the crotchets and quavers that went to the composition 
of Money Musk. His blue eyes gazing dreamily into 
space took no heed of the objects that crossed his vision, 
and Gentleman Joe was never known to silence his 
fiddle until his tune was ended. 

Fatigue and hunger had somewhat chilled Penny’s 
spirit, and she hesitated on the step ; her escort, how- 
ever, strode on, and shouted to the man of music : 

See here, Joe Lankster ! Stop that infernal chune, 
can’t ye, an’ make folks welcome ! Here’s yo’ niece, I 
say, likely young gal, come to see ye. ” 

Joe Lancaster dropped his bow arm and his jaw at 
once, and stared blankly. He was not expecting Penny, 
and very naturally he did not recognize her, as he had 
not seen her for the last four years, or more. He was 
accustomed to give Lancaster’s Tavern a wide berth. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


75 

not liking the society of his brothers wife, on account of 
whom he held matrimony in abhorrence. 

“ Pen-the-silea ? ” he ejaculated, hoarsely. “Nothin 
the matter, is ther’ ? ” 

“Nothin' much," Penny answered, choking a sob. 
“ I’ve come to see you at last, that’s all." 

“Well, come in, come in," he said, taking her by the 
hands and kissing her resoundingly. Then with a nod 
to his other guest, he led the way through the dark, dis- 
orderly store into a back room, where there was a 
bright wood fire burning in a wide fireplace. 

Mr. Lancaster kicked aside a dog that had monopo- 
lized the hearth, dragged forward two splint-bottomed 
chairs, and invited his guests to sit down ; himself re- 
maining standing, staring in sore perplexity at Penny, 
and wondering why she came. 

“I say, Lankster ! ” said Penny's friend in need, 
“that leetle gal must a wanted to see ye, she wuz trudg- 
ing it a-foot, an' all by herself. I reckon she's kinder 
hongry ; an’ as fur me — I’m that dry." 

Mr. Lancaster took the hint, his sorely puzzled coun- 
tenance broadening with a genial smile. 

“ My cook and that nigger Sam are taking Christmas, ’’ 
said he. “Gone off to some frolic, and both drunk by 
now, I reckon. But there's some cold biscuits and 
bacon in the safe ; and Penthesilea, if you’ll lend a hand, 
we’ll boil some eggs and roast some potatoes.” 

While he was speaking, he set forth on the mantle- 
shelf a suggestive black bottle and a green glass tum- 
bler, with no further comment than a nod to Penny’s 
companion who, waiting for no formal invitation, poured 
"himself out a “dram ” and swallowed it. 

“ Yes, and I’ll tell you what ! ” exclaimed Gentleman 
Joe, with sudden energy, “We’ll do something in honor 
of Christmas ! We’ll have an egg-nog, and then I’ll 
play you some tunes, Halloway. ” In his heart, Joe Lan- 
caster wished this Halloway out of the house, that he 
might learn the secret of Penny’s visit, but he could not 
refuse him such cheer as was his to offer. 

“No, by thunder!” said the unappreciative Hallo- 
way. “None o’ yer chunes for me. I’ll eat yer bis- 
cuits and bakin, and I’ll not turn my back on yer aigg- 
nog; but feed me quick, for I must git on ter Parrish’s 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


76 

to-night, Christmas or no Christmas, and it’s a good 
five mile from here. I 'lowed to do some haulin' to- 
morrer, of shingles, for myhaouse is come toe that pass 
it’s got to have some roofin’ done." 

“ Why don’t you go to Perdico Mills ; ain't it nearer? " 
said Gentleman Joe, pausing in his hospitable prepara- 
tions. 

“Well, I always been to Parrish’s," drawled Hallo- 
way. 

Joe Lancaster, nothing loth to speed the parting 
guest, soon made ready his frugal feast ; and Halloway 
in haste to be gone, bolted his indigestible supper in 
huge mouthfuls, doing ample, though hurried justice to 
the egg-nog, and took leave with a grim hilarity. 

At last, then, uncle and niece were alone, and Joe 
Lancaster’s overpowering curiosity could be satisfied. 

“It’s your step-mother, Penthesilea? ” with confident 
interrogation, while he slowly rubbed his chin. “I 
s' pose it’s your step-mother?" 

Penny understood him. “No," she said ; “ it's every- 
thing, uncle Joe, and I’ll tell you all about it." Tired 
though she was, she felt it impossible to sleep until her 
explanation should be made. “ I just couldn't stay any 
longer. I’m no particular good to anybody. I don’t 
seem to fit into any place there. I did try to do some- 
thing with the boys ; it’s a shame to see them growing 
up so shiftless, like so much cattle ; but — it was no 
use — ” 

“Exactly," interrupted Mr. Joseph Lancaster with 
unction. ‘ ‘ They’re the spawn of their dam. ’’ 

“ If they would give me any sort of a chance," con- 
tinued Penny. “But you see how it is, Uncle Joe ; 
every improvement I try to make comes to nothing — 
and that tavern life chokes me. I want the free air, and 
I want to see the world — to try life for myself I could 
make something of it — " 

She paused, not in discouragement, but in sheer in- 
ability to express her aspirations. 

“I see, I see, Penthesilea," said Uncle Joe, with a 
sagacious nod. “ You’ve been getting educated, so they 
tell me. Why, bless you, that's the thing / wanted to 
do, to see life — it’s what I want to do still. Education 
makes us so." 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


77 


“And so I came away,” Penny remarked, simply, 
acquiescing in her uncle’s view. 

“Of course, of course,” assented Gentleman Joe, 
rubbing his hands. “I don’t blame you, Penthesilea ; 
commendable ambition. Maxima debetur pueris reveren- 
tia, as Juvenal says. You see I don’t forget my Latin. 
And — and — what’s become of that — that Yankee that 
took your education in hand, eh ? You see I’ve heard 
about it. It was your name that attracted his attention, 
so, remotely, you are indebted to me ; your education is 
partly my work, and 1 feel beholden to that young man 
for completing what I began. What’s become of him, 
eh?” 

“ He’s gone,” responded Penny, briefly. 

“Oh ? ” said her uncle. “You weren’t — sweethearts, 
eh ? ” 

“No,” Penny answered, indignantly. 

“And you ain’t following after him?” 

“No,” said Penny still indignant. “How could I 
follow him, if I wanted to? He is going all over the 
world. He left eight months ago, and there’s an end 
of him forever, so far as Lam concerned.” 

“You’re a sensible girl, Penthesilea,” Uncle Joe de- 
clared with admiration. “ I always said so.” 

“ Yes I think I am,” Penny assented, complacently. 
“ If I had a chance I could make something comfortable 
of life. But I had no chance there at the tavern, and so 
I came away here to you.” 

“Good Lord, Pen ! ” exclaimed Uncle Joe, slapping 
his lanky thighs. Do you call this seeing the world ? 
Tibi serviat tdiimi Thule, as Virgil says. Why, it’s the 
end of creation.” 

“ It’s better than the tavern,” said Penny, stubbornly. 
“ And I can’t go any farther. Besides, Uncle Joe,” she 
continued, eagerly, “ I’m young enough still — some 
chance might come to me ” 

“Not in this confounded outpost of civilization,” said 
Uncle Joe, hopelessly. 

“And in the meantime,” Penny persisted, undaunted, 
“ I could be living a life of some use. There is much 
I could do for you, Uncle Joe, if you would let me ? ” 

“Lord, child,” said Uncle Joe, with a subdued im- 
patience, “ it’s no use talking; I’m too pore ; I’d adopted 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


78 

you long ago, but I’m too pore ; and this place is too 
outen the way.” 

“You wouldn’t stay poor if you had some one to man- 
age for you,” said Penny, confidently. “And as to 
this place being out of the way, it is just in the way for 
people to come by and eat up your provisions. It 
doesn’t so much matter about that man eating his supper 
here to-night,” she continued, coloring at the recollec- 
tion of Halloway ’s refusal to take pay for her ride ; 
“but people are always doing that, and you may as 
well take advantage of your position to keep a public 
table and charge for it." 

“’Twouldn’t do, never, Penthesilea,” said her uncle, 
shaking his head. “The spirit of the community is 
down on any such proceedin’s ; I’d be a by-word 
through the county. I couldn’t think of such Yankee 
closeness. And it’s too lonesome for a young girl, Pen- 
thesilea. You’d die of the lonesomeness.” 

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Penny, stoutly. “I couldn’t 
find it lonesome if I had my work to do. I could do a 
great deal if I had a chance. ” 

“A great deal?” slowly repeated Gentleman Joe. 

‘ * As what ? ” 

“Oh, in the way of gardening, planting, making 
things grow. We might have a little farm. Uncle Joe ? ” 

“ Land’s too pore,” said her uncle, sententiously. 

Penny’s heart began to sink. 

“ I should think,” she faltered, “that by manage- 
ment — ” 

“ ’Tain’t no manner of use, I tell you, child. Gophers 
and salamanders can pick up a livin’ here, but not white 
folks. The most you can do is to degenerate to the 
level of yo’ surroundin’s, and forgit yo’ education. 
That’s what I’ve come to, pretty nearly; and my mind 
has long been made up to get outen this barren trap as 
soon as I can.” 

Penny did not believe a word of this ; not that she 
suspected her uncle of deliberately attempting to deceive 
her, but she knew him by family tradition for a vision- 
ary. 

“ I don’t know why you should complain of the land 
being poor,” she said, ignoring his threat of emigration. 
“ I remember your garden that day I spent here, four 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


79 

years ago ; things grew there as they ought to grow in 
a garden. ” 

“Yes,” said Uncle Joe, with complacency, “garden- 
ing is like fiddling; you can’t do it unless you have the 
gift” 

“ I am sure I have it! ” cried Penny. “I mean the 
gardening gift. Ah, Uncle Joe, how I should like to 
stay with you and work in that garden. ” 

“It can’t be, child ; I tell you it can't be,” said Uncle 
Joe, obdurately. “ I'm in dead earnest about quitting 
the place. I've had a hankering all my days to See the 
country beyond the Rocky Mountains, and I’m only 
waiting for the sheriff to sell me out to pack up my fiddle 
and go. ” 

“I could go with you,” said Penny, desperately, as 
she felt the world slipping from beneath her feet. 

“Oh, you couldn’t, Penthesilea. If I had money, I 
wouldn’t say no to you ; but as .it is, you’d hamper me 
to death, and that’s the honest fact. You can’t tie onto 
me, Penny ; I don’t want the responsibility of no woman- 
kind in any shape or form.” 

“You don't mean to send me back home?” cried 
Penny, tragically. 

* ‘ Not if I k?iow it y my girl. I’ve too accurate an in- 
sight into your step-mother’s disposition to do you any 
such ill-turn. I can’t take you out to California ; I’d as 
lief go with my hands tied ; but what I can do for you 
I will. I’ll put you in a way to see the world, if you’ve 
the courage to help yourself. ” 

“ I’ve the courage for anything,” said Penny, “except 
to stay at the tavern.” 

“Well, well,” said Uncle Joe, “it’s getting late. 
Vou’d better go to bed. I’ll mature my plan and talk 
it over with you in the morning. There’s a bunk in 
that little room off the staircase. Go to bed, child ; 
we’ll talk business to-morrow.” 

So saying, Uncle Joe stuck a tallow candle into a 
bottle, lighted it at the fire, and said good-night as he 
handed it to his niece. 

Penny went to bed and to sleep, but Gentleman Joe 
sat over the embers until late in the night, planning her 
future, or planning so much of it as he could control 

In his earlier years, Mr. Joe Lancaster had served as 


8o 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


a clerk in a dry-goods house in Savannah, and there he 
had formed the acquaintance of a Mrs. Braid, a fashion- 
able milliner, whose life he had saved at the risk of his 
own when her house was burned. He knew that he 
could count upon Mrs. Braid as a friend, and to Mrs. 
Braid he determined to confide his niece. 

He told Penny of his plan early the next morning. 
She was digging in the garden, not with any ulterior 
design of influencing her uncle, but simply because she 
never could resist the temptation held out by a hoe- 
handle and a weedy garden-bed. 

Penny heard her uncle with a sinking heart ; to ex- 
change a hoe for a needle, the free air of a garden for 
a milliner’s close room seemed to her a doom little 
short of the penitentiary : but her stout good sense came 
to her aid. She reflected that such a life need not last 
forever, and that by dilligence and good management 
she might make the milliner’s needle bore its way at 
last to the open fields she loved. She accepted her 
uncle’s offer thankfully, therefore, and Gentleman Joe 
was pleased. 

“ You see, Penthesilea,” he said, consolingly, just 
as things stand, it’s about the best within the compass of 
my means. We have got an old maid cousin, used to 
set great store by me, Cousin Zobelia Ann Loftus. She 
lives on a farm of her own, somewhere up in the hills ; 
but bless you, I’ve lost sight of her too long ago. Now, 
if you could catch on to her — ” 

“ No, no,” said Penny, flushing scarlet ; “ I can ask 
you to give me a lift, Uncle Joe ; but I’m not going 
hunting up kin to help me on. I’ll try my best at Mrs. 
Braid’s. ” 

“ Maybe you’re about right,” said Gentleman Joe, 
reflectively. “And I’ll tell you what, Penthesilea,” he 
continued, with animation, “ I know something of city 
life, and you sha’n’t go there unprovided. You must 
have a trunk — I’ll let you take mine ; and I reckon there 
are things a plenty in the sto’ to fit you out proper. 
Come along in to breakfast, and then we’ll see.” 

Accordingly, after breakfast, Joe Lancaster gave his 
niece an outfit of the best his slender stock of goods 
permitted. There was a piece of green worsted with 
black stripes, which he insisted she should make into a 


PENNY LANCAS1ER , PARMER. 8 1 

dress ; and to this he added a red shawl, a blue ribbon 
for her hat, and a gay cotton parasol. Presumably, 
Mr. Joseph Lancasters taste had degenerated to the 
level of his surroundings. Penny, however, saw nothing 
amiss in his selections, and was grateful beyond w'ords 
for his gifts. Meantime, pending the making of the 
dress, and the mending of Mr. Joe’s dilapidated ward- 
robe, Mrs. Braid was written to, and a favorable answer 
being received, Penny was, to use her uncle’s mercan- 
tile phrase, duly shipped to Savannah, consigned to 
Mrs. Braid. Mr. Joe took her himself, in an ox-cart, 
borrowed of a neighbor five miles distant, to the nearest 
railroad station, and there bade her farewell, slipping 
into her hand, along with her ticket, a five-dollar bill, 
almost a fortune, in Penny’s eyes. 


CHAPTER X. 
penny’s friend. 

At Lancaster’s Tavern, the hilarity of Christmas Day 
distracted attention from Penny’s flight, and it was not 
until the next morning that her absence was accepted 
as an assured fact. There was loud lament on the part 
of Mrs. Lancaster and the sisters who doubted not that 
she had followed Kenric. 

“She shall never darken these do’s no mo’,” Mrs. 
Lancaster declared, as she rocked back and forth with 
all the semblance of woe. * ‘ No, not if she was toe crawl 
on her knees.” 

“ She is our sister no more ; we disown her ! ” cried 
Mrs. Lyndham, tragically. 

“Just on the eve, almost, of my marriage,” lamented 
Miss Arabella. 

Old Archie expressed his feelings only by a down- 
cast head, and a melancholy wringing of his hands. 
It never entered his heart to disown his child, but he 
hadn’t sufficient force of character to declare his con- 
viction that Penny was blameless, and that her family 


82 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


had no right to turn against her. Mrs. Lancaster’s will 
was not to be lightly crossed, and he weakly took 
refuge in the hope that wherever Penny was she might 
find herself too comfortable ever to come back to Lan- 
caster’s Tavern, seeing that he could not dare to make 
her welcome. It was his belief that she had gone 
northward, and for a day and a half, he tried, in his 
feeble way to find some trace of her. It never occurred 
to him, nor to any other member of the family that 
Penny had gone to the Cross-roads, and Gentleman Joe 
might be trusted to keep her counsel, as well as Dr. 
Griffith, whose intuitions had guided him so well that 
two days after Christmas, he obtained a glimpse of 
Penny at an upper window of the Cross-roads store, 
sewing buttons on her uncle Joe’s over-coat For her. 
peace of mind, Penny was none the wiser, though the 
Doctor dismounted and made a visit to her uncle that 
lasted half an hour. Mr. Joe Lancaster, being of a 
secretive disposition, did not reveal anything of his plan 
for his niece, yet he sent the Doctor back to Little War- 
renton somewhat comforted. 

But Dr. Griffith held his peace, and the first news re- 
ceived of Penny at Lancaster’s Tavern, was from Penny 
herself. She had no intention of hiding from her family. 
She did not wish to be forgotten by those of her own 
blood, and she thought they ought to know, first of all, 
what her uncle Joe had done for her, and next what she 
proposed to do for herself. She wrote, therefore, as 
soon as she was settled at Mrs. Braid’s to “dear father, 
sisters and all,” explaining her reasons for quitting her 
home, not professing a penitence she did not feel, but 
expressing an earnest hope that they would sometimes 
think of her and write to her. 

This letter was answered by Mrs. Lancaster, who, 
though well-satisfied to have Penny established at a dis- 
tance, took care to let her understand that she deserved 
the vengeance of Heaven for thus abandoning her home. 
Concerning the long-looked-for letter from Kenric, which 
had come the day Dr. Griffith rode over to the Cross- 
Roads, Mrs. Lancaster wrote never a word. 

Without compunction of conscience, old Archie’s wife 
had seized upon Kenric’s letter and opened it, feeling 
that she thus assisted the vengeance of Heaven. Kenric 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 83 

wrote that his uncle had died early in the summer ; that 
he himself had been too harassed by business to form 
any definite plans, else he should have written before. 
He begged Penny not to think from his silence that he 
had ceased to interest himself in her future ; he assured 
her that he would ever remember her with the friendliest 
regard. If Penny would permit him, and could win 
her father’s consent, he had a plan to propose, which 
was that she should go to a certain school he named, 
and allow him to pay all expenses. He closed his letter 
by an earnest entreaty that she would not refuse him 
the pleasure of doing this for her. 

“I’m agoin’ toe answer that letter ! ” Mrs. Lancaster 
declared, loudly talking down her husband’s meek re- 
monstrance. “I know what I’m about. It’s my 
bounden duty toe let Mr. Kenric know she ain’t wuth 
any trouble. He shall know how she’s left her home, 
an’ the shelter of her father’s roof secretly, and without 
provocation, in the dead of the night, and without 
warnin’. I'm a-goin’ to let him know we don’t expect 
to receive her again ; we’ve shuk her off like dust from 
our feet Ef he’s so anxious to spend his money an’ 
air his gratitude — an’ Lawd knows he was tooken care 
of here ; many’s the time have I worritted over his 
breakfus” — which, indeed, was true — “why, then, let 
him give my son Gawge a lift, I say ! ” 

But Mrs. Lancaster’s letter met with no response ; 
neither did she hear again from Penny. Her letter to 
her step-daughter had not been intended to call forth a 
reply, as Penny very clearly perceived. She knew that 
Mrs. Lancaster expressed the opinion of the family : 
nevertheless, she still hoped to hear from her father and 
her sisters ; but as days and weeks and months went 
by without bringing her a letter, she began to feel her- 
self disowned. 

In those days, as she sat stitching in Mrs. Braid’s 
crowded little back room, Penny made acquaintance 
with a suffering upon which she had not counted when 
she left her home with so daring a resolve to mould her 
own destiny. Home-sickness took possession of her, 
and often there were times when her stout heart failed 
her, and she pined for a sight of the stupid little town 
she had been half wild to leave, for there she had a 


84 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

father and two sisters. Till now she never knew how 
strong was the love that slumbered in her heart for 
those she had deserted. But it never entered her 
thoughts to return ; she felt most acutely that her own 
act had shut her out forever from her childhood’s home. 

In the course of a twelvemonth Mr. Joseph Lancaster 
put his threat of emigration into execution, and wandered 
away with his fiddle, but before he left he wrote his 
niece a farewell letter, the last she ever had from him, 
in which he told her that her father had been killed by 
the accidental discharge of a gun, that her sister 
Arabella had become a confirmed invalid, and that her 
sister Mrs. Lyndham was soon to be married again. 

This letter was a severe shock to Penny ; its first ef- 
fect was to emphasize most forcibly her isolation, and 
then, by a violent reaction, her thoughts turned im- 
petuously to Kenric. Penny was no sentimentalist, yet 
she had taken a sort of chastened pleasure in con- 
templating her friendship with the Northern stranger as 
a beautiful and inspiring episode that had fulfilled its 
part in her life and was ended— not “dead,” for that 
would seem to imply treachery or unworthiness some- 
where — but simply ended, because the need for it, and 
the occasion for it was passed ; and she had believed 
that she was content to have it so ; but now her one in- 
sistent desire was to look upon his friendly face, to hear 
his kindly voice once more. Of his declaration of love 
she had never liked to think, because she had never be- 
lieved in its sincerity. She had felt instinctively that 
Kenric deceived himself when he talked of love to her, 
and she was both too proud and too true to accept 
a self-deceiving homage. But now she was half- 
frightened to find herself questioning whether she had 
not been over-scrupulous. Perhaps, after all, it was 
that other girl about whom he had deceived himself ? 
And she — Penny always thought of this girl whose 
name she did not wish to know with contemptuous 
emphasis — she had let a matter of money come between 
her heart and her lover ! And then it occurred to Penny 
— and strange to say, the suggestion carried with it an 
element of consolation — that a great deal of money 
might be as formidable a barrier to the heart’s free 
course as a very little money. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 85 

But all these thoughts Penny kept to herself ; she had 
no confidants. She was too shy and too bucolic in her 
aspirations to find favor with a set of girls whose highest 
ambition was to ape the ladies of fashion. Besides, she 
had risen too rapidly : Mrs. Braid approved of Penny 
because she wasted no time talking, and took pains to 
do well whatever task was set her. Mrs. Braid never 
noticed that she was growing pale and thin. Mere 
thinking on the happy fields could not give the pining 
girl vigor, and the monotony of her life was wearing 
upon her : day followed day in the same tedious round 
of ribbons and fringes, and lace and artificial flowers, 
until her very soul was sick for the happy fields where 
things had leave to grow in constant change and cheer- 
ing variety. Within these stifling walls nothing ever 
happened, nothing ever could happen, so Penny 
fancied, to send one thrill through her dull heart. 

But there came a day when something did happen, 
something she would never have expected anywhere. 
It was one of those perfect days of a Southern winter, 
cold without wind, and tempered by the glory of sun- 
shine, a little more than a year since her coming to Mrs. 
Braid’s. Penny was sitting by the window — she hated 
the stove — sewing ribbons on a little silk wrap, when 
the door that led into the show-room in front was thrown 
open, and Mrs. Braid asked in that peremptory manner 
to which Penny had at last resigned herself : 

“Now, then, Miss Lancaster, will you bring that 
mantle ? It should be ready by this time. ” 

“ It is ready,” said Penny, as she rose. 

“Ah? ” said Mrs. Braid in a tone that evinced her sat- 
isfaction. “Then you may try it on the lady.” 

This was a reward that Penny was far from coveting ; 
but she advanced with as good a grace as she could 
summon, and placed the garment over the shoulders of 
a young, richly-dressed, extremely pretty, but delicate- 
looking lady, who apparently found her an awkward 
tire-woman, for she turned abruptly away and began to 
survey herself in the long mirror. 

Mrs. Braid had disappeared for the moment, and 
Penny, who had never been able to learn the milliners 
glib art of complimenting, stood gazing in silent ad- 
miration of this rarely beautiful creature. 


36 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


“Where is Miss Fish? ” said the lady at the mirror, 
turning suddenly. “ Pray step into the shop and ask 
her to come ? ” she said to Penny. “Tell her she can 
bring Mr. Kenric with her ; I would like to have his 
opinion too.” 

Kenric ! The name sent the hot color to Penny Lan- 
caster’s cheeks, and set her heart to beating as if it would 
stop her breath ; utterly incapable of motion, she only 
stood and stared. 

“Why — what’s the matter, girl ? ” said the lady with 
a laugh. She was accustomed to admiration, open- 
eyed or open-mouthed it might be, sometimes, but just 
such a look as this on Penny’s face, she had never seen 
any admirer exhibit. 

Mrs. Braid, who had just returned, gave her work- 
woman a glance of severe reproof, and trotted back into 
the shop across the passage to obey her customer’s be- 
hest with becoming alacrity, while Penny remained 
stupidly staring. She had been so sure that Morrison 
Kenric had forever passed out of her life ; she had never 
expected to meet him again ; she did not expect to meet 
him now ; the familiar name had recalled the old days 
so vividly that she felt as if she were in a dream from 
which she would awake presently, to find herself stitch- 
ing at ribbons and lace. When to her intense, and, 
somehow, painful surprise, the Morrison Kenric she 
knew walked into the room, she turned a deadly pallor 
and caught at a chair to steady her trembling form. 

For Kenric had recognized her instantly. His sur- 
prise was equal to her own, but it had no such paralyz- 
ing effect upon him. He sprang toward her, crying : 

“Why, Penny! Why, Penny Lancaster! What a 
glad surprise to meet you ! ” And he took Penny’s un- 
resisting hands in both his own. 

The lady who entered with him, a tall and stately per- 
son, past her first youth, turned her handsome haughty 
countenance upon Penny with an annihilating stare, 
which, however, Penny did not see : but the younger 
lady laughed pleasantly and said : 

“Don’t you understand, Miss Fish ? ” 

“I should think that the — scene requires some ex- 
planation, ” Miss Fish returned, coldly. 

“And you shall have it ! ” answered Kenric, with that 


PENNY LANCASTER , , FARMER . 


8 / 

charming good-humor Penny knew of old. “Alice,’* 
he said, dropping one of Penny’s hands, and turning to 
the lady beside the mirror, ‘ ‘ this is my friend Penny I 
have told you of, the good, kind Penny who took such 
faithful care of me when I was ill unto death in a land 
of strangers. ” 

Penny’s color returned at this. 

“And Penny,” he went on, after just an instant’s 
pause, “this is Alice — my wife.” As he spoke, he 
clasped his wife’s hand and Penny’s together, and gave 
Penny an appealing look. 

“You are not quite a stranger to me,” said Mrs. 
Kenric, graciously. “ I am really quite pleased to meet 
you.” 

“And so — and so,” stammered Penny, “you married 
her — after all — ” 

“No, no,” interrupted Kenric quickly, and with a 
forced laugh. “ This is Alice — ” 

“A very different person, I beg to inform you,” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Kenric, with a stiffness one would not have 
deemed her capable of a moment ago ; and she followed 
Miss Fish to the other end of the room. 

Penny said “ Oh ! ” she thought she ought to be glad, 
but she knew that she was not. 

“ Hearts don’t break, Penny, so easily as we expect,” 
said Kenric with assumed lightness, but real embarrass- 
ment. He was wondering if Penny was thinking of his 
confession of love beside the spring at Little Warrenfon ; 
and Penny was wondering, half-angrily, if he had for- 
gotten all about it. 

* “I suppose they don’t,” said she. “It’s all such a 
surprise, seeing you again, that I — I forgot she was 
married. And I thought you were on the other side of 
the world.” 

“So I have been for a short trip. We returned in 
October. I’ve brought Alice south to avoid our north- 
ern winter. And you know Penny, I would have gone 
to Little Warrenton to see you once again, but Mrs. 
Lancaster wrote me that you had left your home, and 
nobody knew where you were. ” 

“ How did she know where to write to you ? ” Penny 
demanded, eagerly. 

“Why, she read my letter ; it was received at Lan- 


88 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

caster’s Tavern a few days before Christmas, a year 
ago.” 

‘ ‘ And I never heard of it ! ” said Penny bitterly. She 
had never had cause to love her father’s wife, but until 
now she had never hated her. 

“And why did you leave your home, Penny ? ” Ken- 
nc asked. 

At this question Mrs. Kenric came back smiling, and 
put her arm within her husband’s. “ It is time to go,” 
she said, very sweetly, but very decidedly. 

‘ ‘ I came away to see the world,” Penny made an- 
swer to Kenric’s question. 

“You must see a great deal of it here,” said Mrs. 
Kenric, with infantile gentleness. 

Kenric looked annoyed, but Penny replied simply : 

‘ ‘ It’s a beginning. ” And then she sighed. 

“But this life will kill you ! ” exclaimed Kenric. 
“What has become of your farm ? ” 

Penny's eyes tilled with tears ; at that moment it 
seemed to her that the desire of her heart for fields of 
her own was stronger than she had ever felt it, yet more 
than ever hopeless of attainment, and she could not 
speak. 

“It is time to go,” Mrs. Kenric repeated, a little 
coolly. 

“ Well, we’ll see you again, Penny,” said Kenric, and 
shook hands with her. 

Mrs. Kenric merely smiled and nodded. Miss Fish 
had made her sensible that she should not bestow too 
much notice upon her husband’s whilom protegee. 

When they were gone, Penny, oblivious of her call- 
ing, turned to the mirror wherein Kenric’s beautiful wife 
had surveyed herself, and studied her wan cheeks with 
a self-pity utterly foreign to her nature, while the tears 
dimmed her vision. 

“Penny Lancaster, don’t be a fool,” said Mrs. Braid 
sharply, and Penny came to her senses and answered 
her employer’s avalanche of questions discreetly. 

“Law, how romantic, surely!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Braid, when she had heard the story. “And now, 
Penny, own up honest ; wasn’t he in love with you ? ” 

“Never,” said Penny, without a tremor, without a 
blush, for she knew that she spoke the truth. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 89 

“It’s a wonder you wasn’t in love with him,” said 
Mrs. Braid, insinuatingly. 

“ I hope I am not such a fool !” retorted Penny, in- 
dignantly. 

Poor Penny’s wan cheeks and dull eyes had made a 
far profounder impression upon Kenric than her youth- 
ful bloom of the days gone by. He saw that this life 
of confinement was killing her, and he could not let 
Penny die. 

Something must be done, and done quickly ; but to 
offer her money was out of the question ; to take her 
away with himself and his wife was equally out of the 
question ; neither did it seem advisable to buy a farm and 
establish Penny thereon, for he had no faith in Penny’s 
ability to manage any such undertaking : but he was 
determined that his friend Penny should have a more 
congenial life, and in illustration of the proverb, “Where 
there’s a will, there’s a way,” before he left Savannah, 
he had secured her a good home with a widow of 
limited means and feeble health, who was very glad to 
have a brisk reliable person to look after the domestic 
interests of her small plantation. 

Here began a more congenial life for Penny Lancaster ; 
here dawned for her the happiest days she yet had 
known ; for here she could indulge her bucolic tastes un- 
restrictedly, and her eyes soon regained their brightness, 
and her cheeks their color. 

For a year she heard from Kenric occasionally ; but 
after a letter announcing the birth of his son, he ceased 
to write. This last letter cost Penny Lancaster some 
strange unaccountable tears, and filled her heart with a 
great yearning to see Kenric’s boy, and for several 
years, as the winter came round, she indulged the hope 
that Kenric would re-visit the South : she wished to 
see his happiness, she told herself. 

But Kenric had sailed for Europe with his wife and 
child, and when Penny saw her Northern friend again 
it was a time of war. 


9 o 


PENNY LANCASTER . FARMER 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE COURAGE OF A COWARD. 

In the second year of the war, Penny’s happy rural 
life in the home Kenric had foundforher came to an end : 
the mistress of the little plantation died, and the property 
passed into the possession of a distant relative of the 
old lady, Major Boscobel Meadon, an officer in the 
Confederate Army whose settled home was in the hill 
country of North Alabama. Major Meadon put his 
newly acquired property in charge of an overseer, and 
following the example of many another good man in 
those troubled times, in offering a home to the homeless, 
insisted that Penny should return to North Alabama with 
him, and take up her abode with his family. Penny 
thankfully accepted the shelter thus offered her ; but she 
ate no idle bread in her new home, and very soon her 
energy, industry, and helpfulness won her many friends. 

Mrs. Meadon, a delicate, nervous, dependent little 
woman soon discovered that Penny was indispensable 
to the well-being of herself and her children, and she 
proclaimed everywhere that she knew not how she ever 
had lived without this brisk, capable, cheerful young 
person. 

It was mid-winter when Penny, arrived at the Meadon 
homestead, a tidy place about a mile distant from the 
county town ; but before spring this blooming young 
woman of twenty-seven had several admirers who made 
Mrs. Meadon’s heartache with apprehension. 

“ It ain’t that I'm selfish, Penny, it ain’t indeed,” the 
little woman protested ; “but there’s not one of them 
good enough for you, not one ! Just wait till you find 
another like Bosco ; and let me tell you, such as he are 
scarce as hen’s teeth.” 

Major Boscobel Meadon was a devoted husband, a 
tender father, a kind master to his slaves, Penny knew, 
and she believed that there were many more just like 
him ; but she would not confess this faith to Mrs. 
Meadon. 

But one spring day, when the snow was finally melted 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


'91 

and the plum-trees began to show white against the 
smoky air, there appeared a claimant for Penny more 
formidable than any that had yet threatened Mrs. Mea- 
don’s peace. A little old woman in a homespun dress 
and ancient bonnet, and wrapped around with a volumi- 
nous cloak of coarse gray cloth, came down from the 
mountains and knocked at Mrs. Meadon’s door, and 
Mrs. Meadon herself answered the knock. 

Now this little old woman was known to be eccen- 
tric, and was believed by many to be insane, and Mrs. 
Meadon trembled when she asked her if she would 
come in. 

“ Come in? Of course I'll come in," said the little 
old woman with sharp decision. “What else do you 
suppose I knocked at the door for? They tell me you’ve 
got a Lancaster in this house ; go fetch her along, I 
want to see her.” 

In sore dread and amazement, Mrs. Meadon left this 
unwelcome guest precipitately, and rushed off to Penny. 
“ Oh, Penny, "she cried, “I am frightened half to death ; 
there’s that dreadful old Miss Loftus in the parlor asking 
for you. And I do believe she is crazy. " 

“ I do believe she is kin to me ! " cried Penny. “ Is 
her name Zobelia, Zobelia Ann ? ” 

“Zobelia Ann — that is her ridiculous — Oh, I beg your 
pardon ! Maybe she isn’t really crazy, ’’said Mrs. Mea- 
don, penitently. 

“ She is my father’s cousin ; I will go see her,” said 
Penny rising.” 

A new fear possessed Mrs. Meadon. “Oh, Penny, 
she will take you away from me !” she cried. “And 
what will become of us ? ” 

“ She can’t take me away against my consent,” said 
Penny ; “ she has no claim upon me.” 

“Yes ; but keep on the good side of her, Penny,” Mrs 
Meadon cautioned, with sober second thought. “I’ve 
heard that she has a great deal of money laid by ; why 
shouldn’t you reap the benefit of it? ” 

“I have no claim upon her” said Penny. 

“Aren’t you the nearest kin? ” Mrs. Meadon asked, 
with eager interest. 

“ I don’t know,” said Penny; “but it doesn’t make 
any difference.” 


9 2 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


And she went away to meet her kinswoman. 

She* found Miss Zebelia Ann Loftus sitting bolt upright 
in the middle of the parlor, on a chair so high that her 
feet dangled free of the floor. 

“Well, young woman/’ said she, with a searching 
look, “a Lancaster ye air by your favor; and I’ll be 
bound it was Joseph Lancaster gave ye such a outland- 
ish name as Penthesilea ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Penny. 

“He had more brains than any fool I ever saw,” said 
Miss Loftus, dryly. 

“He isn’t a fool at all,” said Penny. “He just had 
no — management. ” 

“That’s what I call a fool,” said Miss Loftus with a 
grim smile. “I don’t think you air that kind from what 
I hear tell. That’s why I came to see ye. I’ve took a 
interest in ye, for my mother was a Lancaster. Come, 
give me a buss. There ! You’re Archie’s daughter, eh ? 
I’ve heard he married a Donald. Fine family ; so are 
the Lancasters — in a different way. I’m one of the 
genu-ine, old-fashioned Lancasters, believe in gittin’ 
my livin’ out o’ Mother Earth, myself, and I’ve got a 
snug, and tidy place, out o’ reach, up thar in the moun- 
tings, and I want ye to go with me and stay” 

“Oh, but,” stammered Penny, taken aback by this 
unexpected invitation, “I — I have a feeling that I be- 
long here; Mrs. Meadon needs me.” 

“Air ye akin to these Meadons, I’d rejoice to know ! 
Now see here, I’d give you some information as to the 
people you belong to. There used to be a saying, ‘ No 
fool like a Lancaster fool,’ which as I take it, is a com- 
pliment when read backwards. You needn’t think Fm 
a Lancaster fool because I jump at ye like a duck at a 
June-bug. I been taking account of ye though ye didn’t 
know it ; and I ain’t backward to tell ye that I want ye 
because ye ain't a Lancaster fool — no more am I. But 
if ye don’t close with my offer, maybe ye’ll live to think 
ye were a Lancaster fool — once.” 

It was not an enticing form of persuasion. “The 
Meadons have been kind to me,” said Penny ; “ I could 
not leave them at a word. ” 

“ Gratitood ! ” said Miss Loftus, nodding her head 
many times. Upon the whole she was not displeased ; 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


93 

but she slipped down from her perch, saying, ‘ * Well, I got 
no time to fling away 1 Ye can come and see me, some, 
pYaps ; and yell like it when ye git thar.” 

“ Yes, I will go to see you,” said Penny, following 
her eccentric kinswoman down the steps of the porch, 
and out to the gate where her queer little conveyance — 
a rusty, topless buggy, drawn by a sturdy horse — was 
waiting. “It is very kind of you, and — ” 

“No, ’tain’t kindness exactly: I’m lonesome, and 
that’s a fact,” said Miss Loftus, as she climbed into her 
buggy. “ But don’t you go to think I’m repentin’ of not 
marrying ; it’s jes’ because I ain’t so spry as I used to 
be. And you’ll let me give you this parting advise : 
don t you fling yourself away on that Luke Rosser , mind 
ye ? Handsome face, soft voice and winning ways, a 
good-for-nothing, take it easy — ” 

“ He is a bomb-proof,” said Penny, scornfully ; “ I’ll 
never marry a bomb-proof.” 

“Well,” said Miss Loftus, in a tone of indulgence, as 
she gathered up the reins, “he’s been coddled all his 
life.” Then after a cautious glance over her shoulder, 
she continued in a lower key, “ I don’t blame no man 
for keepin’ out o’ this fuss ; and I don’t take sides my- 
self. If they want to fight, let ’em fight, I say, but let 
me alone. And don’t you take sides, neither ; it ain’t 
none o’ your fuss. ” 

When Penny returned to the house, Mrs. Meadon was 
standing in the hall. 

“Oh, Penny,” she said, breathlessly, “did she want 
to take you away with her ? ” 

“Yes,” said Penny ; “but I am not going to leave 
you.” 

Mrs. Meadon breathed a sigh of relief. “I wouldn’t 
be selfish for anything in the world, Penny,” she said ; 
“but indeed I don’t see how I could do without you. 
Only I hope Miss Loftus didn’t go away offended ?” 

“No,” said Penny. “ I promised to go to see her 
some day.” 

“Yes, you’d better go,” Mrs. Meadon said. “She’s 
laid up a mint of money, so they say ; and it’s been a 
world’s wonder who she’d leave it to.” 

“There’s no reason to think she’ll leave it to me,” said 
Penny, bluntly, “and I am not going to run after it ; 
but I’ll go to see her because she’s kin. ” 


94 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


For Penny had felt what it was to be alone m the 
world. She felt it more keenly when she went up the 
“ mounting- ” and found her cousin in a little isolated 
nook, with no neighbor nearer than four or five miles, 
and she was moved to stay a week, when she had 
meant to stay but two days. 

“ I should not like to have a farm in such a place,” 
thought the practical Penny ; ‘ ‘ it’s too far from a mar- 
ket, and the ground is too uneven.” 

Yet, many a time as she gazed at the solemn heights 
communing with the sky, her heart stirred with the 
vagife fancy that she felt the meaning of the poetry 
Kenric used to read to her. Thus she learned to love 
these agrestic solitudes, and she visited her lonely kins- 
woman often enough to acquire such a familiarity with 
the wild mountain country that it became a common 
saying that Penny. Lancaster was qualifying for a guide. 

Mrs. Meadon never saw her depart on these frequent 
visits to Miss Loftus without the fear that she would 
never return. But Penny had no thought of making 
her permanent abode in the mountains. There was too 
much to be done in these stirring times of war, and her 
ardent, energetic spirit could not endure the ignominious 
ease of her kinswoman’s retirement ; there was always 
something for Penny to do in the little town near which 
the Meadons lived. 

In the last, year of the war, this town, lying in the 
track of both armies, several times changed hands, and 
was held now by Confederates and now by Federals. 
Upon one occasion, when the Federals had taken sud- 
den possession, the inhabitants found that all the cattle 
in and around the place had been seized to supply beef 
for the soldiers. Now, there were, in that unhappy 
little town, a number of poor widows with young 
children, each to a greater or less extent dependent upon 
her cow for subsistence, and when their loss was dis- 
covered a great wail went up. One, less tearful and 
more hopeful than the others, decided that since the 
cows had not yet been slaughtered, they might possibly 
obtain redress if they went in a body to the command- 
ing officer, and each represented her case. 

This plan was unanimously approved, but no one of 
the nine or ten widows was bold enough to head the 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


95 

procession, and the expedition might have failed for 
lack of a leader had it not been ascertained that Penny 
Lancaster was in town ; for Penny’s coolness, her cour- 
age, her fertility of resource caused her to be looked 
upon by the women of the community as a resource in 
every emergency. 

Now Penny, as it happened, had walked in early that 
morning for the purpose of recovering, not a cow, but 
a fine horse that had been seized as the spoil of war. 
This horse had been given to Penny by a Confederate 
soldier whom she had nursed back to life. Penny 
cherished no sentiment in regard to the animal, but she 
loved her property, and she was determined to recover 
it by any means in her power. The widows heard of 
this, and they waited upon Penny in a body. They 
knew where to find her. She was at Mrs. Rosser’s, for 
though she despised Luke Rosser for shirking his duty 
and for his general unthrift and uselessness, Mrs. Rosser 
had won her regard, and without the slightest intention 
of encouraging Luke, Penny had fallen into the habit of 
stopping to see his mother whenever she came into 
town. 

To Mrs. Rosser’s, therefore, the cow-bereft widows 
hastened. Mrs. Rosser was herself a widow, and she 
had lost her cow, but it had not occurred to her that 
there was any possibility of recovering it until her 
fellow-sufferers explained their errand ; then she put on 
her bonnet and shawl, and declared her intention of 
joining the petitioners. 

“The mo’ the better!” cried one of the company, 
hysterically. “But it’s Penny we want for spokes- 
woman ; she’s got the gift of the gab. ” 

Penny, who had an idea that she would stand abetter 
chance to recover her own property if she went alone, 
objected that she was not a widow. 

“But you might a’ been,” whimpered poor little Mrs. 
Tobin, who had had no breakfast. 

“ It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Tobin to be spokes-woman, 
you see, Penny,” said Mrs. Jarver, sharply. “Nice 
mess she’d make of it ! And as for me, I’d be sure to 
get mad and say somethin’ sassy ; so widow or no 
widow, if you’ve got a shred of patriotism, come on ! ” 

“To be sure,” remonstrated Mrs. Tobin, mildly, 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


96 

“ there ain’t so little sense as you might suppose in 
what I said. Everybody knows that Penny Lancaster 
might a’ been a widow twice over, for there was Tom 
Grigsby and Putney Jones both wanted to marry her, 
and both dead on the battlefield — ’’ 

‘‘Oh, come on, Penny!” said Mrs. Rosser. “It’s 
no matter if you ain’t a widow, you’re young and good- 
looking, and that’s more to the purpose with a lot o’ 
men. ” 

“ That’s so,” Mrs. Tobin declared, as she smoothed 
her hair under her bonnet. She was the best looking 
widow of them all and the youngest, and she knew it. 

“But I’ve not lost a cow,” objected Penny. 

“That’s no difference ; a horse is all the same. And 
if you don't come on, Penny, our cows will every 
blessed one of ’em be beef, and we a-starvin’.” 

So Penny was induced to lead the forlorn procession 
that set off through the mud and drizzling rain of a raw 
November day, to regain their property by dint of what 
eloquence and pathos they could bring to bear. Each 
widow held her child by the hand, or her neighbor’s, if 
she had none of her own, and thus they wended their 
way to the building occupied as headquarters by the 
troops in possession. 

The door of the adjutant’s office which opened upon 
the street was already besieged by a motley crowd, and 
the passage leading to the inner room was so densely 
packed by the idle, the curious, and the busy, that the 
little company of petitioners could push their way only 
by very slow degrees. Thus it came to pass that Mrs. 
Tobin, the smallest, nimblest, wiriest of their number, 
arrived in presence of the officers some moments before 
her companions had reached even the threshold. The 
glimpse she caught, through the uncurtained window, 
of the cattle penned in the yard adjoining, counteracted 
whatever terror the sight of the blue-coats was calcu- 
lated to inspire. 

“ Oh, if you pie — ase, Mr. General ! ” she exclaimed, 
vehemently, clasping her small, thin hands ; “I’m a po’ 
widow, with three small children and one cow ; I mean 
I had a cow, and no breakfast, because your men took 
away the cow, which it was my main dependence. I’m 
sho’ it was a mistake : I’m sho’ you wouldn’t be so im- 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. gy 

polite ; I know you didn’t go to take off any po’ widow’s 
cow, and my three little children— and I’d know that 
cow anywhere.” 

There were three or four officers gathered around the 
fire, conferring tegether, but Mrs. Tobin’s sudden, shrill, 
overpowering vehemence had commanded instant 
silence and attention. One of the officers, who wore a 
colonel’s insignia, rose, and came towards Mrs. Tobin. 
He was smiling, and the little woman saw at once that 
her cause was won. 

1 ‘Well, madam,” he said, “ if you can point out your 
cow, she shall be delivered to you forthwith.” 

Mrs. Tobin sprang to the window. 

“ Know my cow?” she cried, hysterically. “I’d 
know old Rose in a thousand. That’s her, that red cow 
with the broken horn, close by the gate.” 

The Colonel immediately, gave an order that Mrs. 
Tobin’s red cow with the broken horn should be de- 
livered to the owner ; but if he thought he had thus 
gotten rid of his petitioner, he was much deceived. 
Mrs. Tobin, elated by her success, and recognizing now 
one, now another of her neighbors’ cows, seized the 
Colonel by the arm, and ere he was aware, drew him 
to the window, where, emphasizing her words with her 
lean fore-finger rapping on the glass, she began to shriek 
out. 

“ And sho’s I’m a livin’ sinner, Mr. General, sir, 
there’s Lou Allen’s Brindle, and she’s a widow too, and 
has got a young calf; do, please, good sir, let Lou 
Allen have her cow ? ” 

The Colonel consented, and ordered Mrs. Lou Allen’s 
cow driven out. 

“And there’s Cousin Ann Putney’s cow, Cherry! 
She’s a good cow, and Cousin Ann Putney couldn’t get 
on nohow without her. Do, if you please , Mr. Genaral, 
turn out Cousin Ann Putney’s cow, and may the Lord 
reward you.” 

This request granted, Mrs. Tobin immediately singled 
out a black cow, then a white cow, then a brown cow, 
named the owner of each, declared each owner a widow 
with more or fewer children, ‘‘and surely Mr. General 
wouldn’t have the heart to refuse? ” 

“See here, Colonel,” said one of the officers standing 

7 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


98 

by the fire, “ I’ll be shot if I don’t believe this is all a 
conspiracy. Is every woman in the town a widow with 
three small children and a cow ? ” 

“No ! no ! They ain’t ! ” Mrs. Tobin made answer ; 
breathlessly. “ That there big spotted cow, with the 
tail bit off is Mrs. Rosser’s, and she ain’t got no children, 
not little ones ; but she’s a widow, and a widow with- 
out a cow such times as these — General, think of it ? ” 
“Turnout Mrs. Rosser’s cow!” said the Colonel, 
convulsed with laughter. 

By this time the rest of Mrs. Tobin’s company had 
made their way into the room. 

“Thunder!” exclaimed the officer that had remon- 
strated. “ Here’s more of the same sort ! An army of 
’em, and each after a cow ! ” 

“No, sir; not exactly,” said Mrs. Tobin, turning to- 
wards him a beaming countenance; “but mostly so, 
exceptin’ Penny Lankster ; she’s not a widow, and it’s 
her horse she's after.” 


CHAPTER XII. 
penny’s prisoner. 

The Colonel was standing with his back to the room, 
looking out of the window, but turning suddenly, he 
found himself face to face with Penny Lancaster, who 
had been thrust forward by her quaking companions. 

A flush of pleasure and surprise rose in his bronzed 
face ; he put out both hands eagerly, and with a tremor 
in his voice, he exclaimed, to the amazement of Penny’s 
friends and his own : 

“ Penny, is it you ? Whatever your request, it is 
granted already.” 

But Penny, pale as the dead, put her hands behind 
her, and staggered back. 

“No,” she said hoarsely, but distinctly — for never 
had she felt herself so unmitigated a rebel — ” No, 
Morrison Kenric, I’ll not shake hands with you, and 
I’ve nothing to ask of you. If I had known it was you 
I would never have come.” Then she turned and 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


99 


walked out of the room, the staring- company parting- on 
either side to let her pass. 

“ There's a fine she-rebel for you,” said one of the 
officers, with a scowl. 

The whole sisterhood of widows were in dismay. 
Poor little Mrs. Tobin wrung her hands in terror, lest 
Penny’s discourtesy should bring about a revocation of 
the edict for the release of the cows. “ Don’t mind 
Penny, now don’t, please , Mr. General,” she pleaded. 
“ She ain’t a widow ; if she was, she’d never be so 
masterful. ” 

The man thus entreated only laughed, and bade the 
women take their cows and go. 

“ And thank you, sir/' said Mrs. Tobin graciously. 
“We wish you luck.” 

But she did penance for this speech outside. 

“Well, indeed, Lucretia Tobin !” Mrs. Rosser ex- 
claimed. “Do you know what you mean by wishing 
that Yankee luck ? ” 

“ I’m certain sure, I never meant no harm,” said 
Mrs. Tobin. 

“ Then you air a fool ! ” declared Lucretia’s ungrate- 
ful Cousin Ann Putney. “Of all the traitorous talk ! ” 

“ Me a traitor?” cried Mrs. Tobin, indignantly. 
“ When nobody but me had the courage to talk to them 
Yankees ! ” 

“And then to go thank him for our own ! ” said Mrs. 
Lou Allen, disdainfully. 

“ Next time go hunt your own cattle ! ” said Mrs. 
Tobin, with spirit ; for whatever they might say, it was 
she who had boldly faced the terrible men in blue, it was 
she who had spoken for the crowd ; and it was her 
eloquence that had recovered the cows : the recollec- 
tion of her prowess gave the little woman a consoling 
sense of superiority, and she stepped off with a lofty 
air, as she added, “For my part, I’d try to be polite to 
the Devil himself.” 

A decided opinion always wins adherents. “Well, 
yes,” said one of the company, “politeness don’t 
never come amiss ; and Penny Lancaster may rue the 
day she put them hands of hers behind her back.” 

“ What’s worse, we may have it to rue that ain’t no 
way to blame,” said another dolefully. 


IOO 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


“ Well/’ said yet another under her breath, so that 
Mrs. Tobin, who was at the head of the procession, 
might not hear, ‘ * we’ve seen this day how a fool can 
pitch in and win where sensible folks hold back ; and 
we’ve seen how a sensible woman can turn fool and 
get a whole community in trouble, maybe : but, Lord ! 
if Penny Lankster had have shook hands with that 
Yankee, who of*is would have wanted to shake hands 
with her again ? 

“ Wonder w T hat it all means ? ” said Mrs. Rosser, 
with an uneasy sigh for the prosperity of her son Luke’s 
courtship. “ / never heard Penny tell of him.” 

Nobody had ever heard Penny tell of him, and in 
vain did they importune her for explanations ; her only 
answer was : 

“ He used to be a good friend of mine.” 

Her heart was too heavy to care whether they praised 
or blamed her. ' She had received the greatest shock of 
her life when she met Morrison Kenric thus unexpect- 
edly. She had taken it for granted that he was still in 
Europe. She had never once thought of him as exposed 
to the perils and hardships of war, she had never pic- 
tured him as an enemy — and he seemed farther away 
from her now than when the broad ocean rolled between 
them. And yet Penny could not shut her eyes to the fact 
that of all the men engaged on either side, this soldier 
of the Federal Army was the only one in whom she 
had a personal interest, and for the first time she realized 
in their fulness the horror and the desolation of war. 

“ Oh, why is he here ? Why does he not go home ? ” 
she cried aloud to herself, in agony, as she walked 
through mire and drizzling rain back to Mrs. Meadon’s. 
In her secret heart, she felt that she could forgive his 
fighting against her people ; what she could not for- 
give him was his risking his life in a quarrel that, in her 
estimation, did not concern him. 

She arrived at Mrs. Meadon’s exhausted by the tumult 
of her emotions, and though ib was early in the after- 
noon, she went at once to bed, in order to secure the 
quiet her wildly throbbing heart and brain demanded. 

“She’s worried at not getting her horse, poor thing ! ” 
said Mrs. Meadon. “ But I told her it was no use to 
try ” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


ior 

All night Penny lay awake and sighed, but towards 
morning she fell into a troubled sleep, and Mrs. Mea- 
don fearing she might bg ill, would not allow her to be 
called for breakfast. When, however, a well-clad 
orderly in Federal uniform rode into the yard, leading 
Penny’s fine horse, Mrs. Meadon judged that it was 
time to rouse the slumberer, more specially as the 
orderly brought a note for Miss Lancaster, which he 
was instructed to deliver into no one’s else hands. 

Penny arose at once and dressed. She felt so stun- 
ned and stupefied that she was incapable of surprise. It 
seemed a mere matter of course that her property should 
be returned to her, and yet — she had not expected it. 
She went out upon the porch and saw the orderly, 
acknowledged the horse he brought as her own, and 
then read, as one in a dream, Morrison Kenric’s note, 
the orderly with his cap in his hand respectfully wait- 
ing, and Mrs. Meadon and all the little flaxen-haired 
Meadons standing agape. But Penny was not con- 
scious of spectators while she read : — 

“My good friend Penny: Although you refused to 
shake hands with me yesterday, I am sure you are still 
my good friend Penny, and I protest that I am not your 
enemy. I should be glad to see you, to talk with you, 
to tell you about my life, and to hear about your own ; 
but this must be as you wish ; I shall not force myself 
upon you. 

“I send you back your horse. You said you would 
ask no favor of me ; very well ; do not take this as a 
favor, but as a right. Only this I do entreat you to re- 
member, Penny, that should you ever need my aid, I 
am still, as of old, 

“Your friend 

‘ ‘ Morrison Kenric. ” 

Penny read this note twice ; then she looked up and 
said to the orderly : 

“It is all right. I — I don’t know that I need write 
an answer ; but you can tell him — you can tell Colonel 
Kenric that I thank him.” 

The orderly bowed and rode away, while one of the 
little boys led the horse to the stable. 

“Well, to be sure,” said Mrs. Meadon, who thought 


102 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


Penny ought to show her that note, “I wouldn’t be 
caught thanking a marauding Yankee for my own.” 

But Penny only smiled vaguely, and shut herself up 
in her room. 

Later in the day Mrs. Meadon heard of Penny’s re- 
fusal to shake hands with the Yankee officer, and there- 
upon she retracted her condemnation of Penny’s thanks, 
saying that it was just as well to be on the good side 
of every one, especially your enemies. 

Nothing, however, could win Penny to confide in 
Mrs. Meadon. How was it possible, indeed, for her to 
make any one understand the conflict that tortured her, 
when she did not understand it herself, and was wholly 
at a loss to characterize it ? She had not the heart to de- 
stroy Morrison Kenric’s note, — the last scrap of writing 
she might ever receive from him, perhaps, — but she put 
it out of her sight with a vague fear and tenderness that 
made her heart ache ; and then she went about her vari- 
ous duties very diligently, trying to make herself be- 
lieve that nothing very extraordinary had happened. 
She lived divided between dread and hope of meeting 
Morrison Kenric — a dread that certainly was not born 
of overweening regard for her neighbor’s opinions, and 
a hope that knew not wherefore it existed, seeing that 
all was so changed between them ; but her dread was 
possibly greater than her hope, inasmuch as she kept 
aloof from the town during the fifteen days* it was held 
by the enemy. 

At the end of that time, the Confederates suddenly re- 
turned in augmented numbers, drove out the Federals, 
and resumed possession. They came early on a Thurs- 
day morning, and there were skirmishing, flight, and 
pursuit all that day, and part of the next, but by Friday 
night all was quiet in and around the oft-disputed town. 

During all that time of struggle, Penny Lancaster was 
in a state of agonizing excitement. She climbed through 
the dormer window and sat the live-long day upon the 
house-top, watching the conflict across the open fields, 
while in her breast there raged a conflict as sharp, for if 
her hope was with her own people, her heart was with 
him who commanded the Federal troops, and her word- 
less prayer went up incessantly for his safety. 

On the Saturday morning Penny arose early. She 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


103 

had recovered her composure, and was ready now for 
helpful work. She announced her purpose to go into 
town at once and do what she could for the wounded. 
She had, moreover, a quantity of socks of which, no 
doubt, many a poor soldier stood sadly in need. But 
in her secret heart, Penny Lancaster knew that patriot- 
ism was less her motive than a devouring eagerness to 
discover, if possible, whether Morrison Kenric was safe. 

She wrapped her heaviest shawl around her, for it 
was a keen and frosty day, and set off on foot, not 
without many remonstrances from Mrs. Meadon, who 
could not understand why Penny would not ride that 
idle horse of hers, “eating his head off in the stable.” 
But Penny, haunted by the dread that Morrison Kenric 
might be wandering weary and footsore and stricken, 
perhaps, by a Confederate bullet, would rather have 
died than ride her horse that day. “ I need the walk,” 
she said, briefly ; and Mrs. Meadon ceased her remon- 
strances, and went in to the fire. 

Penny climbed the rail fence at the back of the house, 
and walked across the fields, to reach what was known 
as the “near-cut,” skirting a little belt of woodland, in 
the heart of which was a dense thicket of underbrush. 
As Penny neared this thicket, ^walking slowly, and lost 
in painful thought, suddenly from out the wood, there 
appeared before her, a Federal soldier, so near that she 
might have put out her hand and touched him. She 
started, not so much in fear, as in amazement. Her 
first thought was that her excited senses had called up 
a vision ; the next moment she saw that it was no 
vision, but Morrison Kenric, covered with mire, haggard 
and feeble. He did not offer to shake hands with her 
now, but he smiled and said : 

“ I am your prisoner, Penny ; I surrender to you.” 

Penny did not scream. She did not rush toward him 
nor from him, but she turned a ghastly pallor, and gave 
a quick, fearful, searching glance around ; then lifting 
her hands in piteous entreaty, she gasped in terror : 

“Oh, get back ! Get back into the thicket, for God’s 
sake, or you are a lost man. I will do what I can, I 
will do my very best ; but get out of sight of the road, 

I beseech you, I implore you ! ” 


104 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


“ It doesn’t matter much,” said Kenric, with a shrug. 
“I am tired of the thicket ; better a prison.” 

Penny sprang toward him and grasped his arm, and 
dragged him into the wood. “I know a place where 
I can hide you,” she panted. “Trust me.” 

She hurried him along with such rapidity that he 
barely had strength to follow her, and yet to herself she 
seemed to move with leaden feet. At last they reached 
a narrow, deep hollow in the ground, like an open 
grave, but hidden by the broadly spreading roots of an 
uptorn tree. 

“Get in!” said Penny, peremptorily, and Kenric 
obeyed. 

Hardly had he entered when she began to throw upon 
him, with a blind fury, every branch and stick, and 
broken bough, and armful of leaves that she could 
gather, until Kenric cried : 

“Enough! Enough, Penny ! I am smothering ! I 
can stand no more !” 

“ Will you hush ?” Penny implored wildly. “You 
must bear everything with the hope of escape. Where 
is your horse ?” 

“ My horse was wounded, and he fell at last, and I 
was separated from the others ; that is why I am here. ” 

Then for an instant Penny’s courage gave way ; she 
threw herself upon her knees and wrung her hands. 
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” she 
moaned “ God of merey, it is a miserable strait” 

Kenric misunderstood her ; a fearful suspicion crossed 
his mind that Penny might be capable of sacrificing 
him to what she considered her patriotic duty. 

“ Traitress ! ” he cried, in impotent rage. “ Rebel ! 
Traitress ! Did I not surrender to you ? But no : it was 
not glory enough that an honorable soldier should sur- 
render to a woman ; you must entrap me here to die, 
like a rat in a hole, while your accursed brood of rebels 
look on and make sport — ” And he struggled violent- 
ly to free himself. 

“ Will you be quiet ? ” Penny'entreated, as she threw 
another armful of branches upon him. “Or, if speak 
you must speak low. Who knows what passing ears 
might catch your voice ? And if they find you — ” 
She shuddered as she went on piling the brushwood 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


I0 5 

over him. “ I tell you, I am ready to risk my life to 
save you ; but you must trust me. I am your good 
friend Penny. " 

“ Ah, Penny, my good friend Penny, forgive, 
forgive/’ Kendric faltered. 

“ I w hl never forgive you if you do not keep quiet, 
now, I must go : but I will surely come again as quick- 
ly as I can.” 

“ But Penny, I am hungry ; I am half starved,” Kenric 
complained, pathetically. 

“ And I have not a mouthful of food with me, ” said 
Penny in despair. “But I will make all the speed I 
can. ” 

She left him, and made her way out of the thicket, in 
a state of excitement that seemed to quicken all her 
powers of mind and body. 

Just as she reached the open wood, she came sudden- 
ly face to face with, Luke Rosser, and saw, with half- 
frenzied intuition that he knew her secret. His hand- 
some face wore a meaning smile that was half a sneer, 
and, forgetting that deference it had been his wont to 
show, he grasped her somewhat rudely by the arm, as 
he said : 

“ See here, Miss Penny Lancaster, Ive heard about 
that Yankee friend of yours ; you don’t deceive me by 
refusing to shake hands with him in public, when you 
meet him, clandestinely , in the woods, here.” 

Penny was in a fury — hers was never a gentle temper. 
She doubled her fists and violently struck away the hand 
that held her arm. “ It is a lie, Luke Rosser ! It is a 
lie ” she cried. 

“ Oh,” said Luke coolly, “ strike with your pretty fists 
and call me a liar. I’ve no mind to harm you ; but I 
tell you what I’ve seen with my own eyes, I well believe. 
You’ve driven me to desperation. I’ve asked and asked 
you to marry me, and now at last I know why you’ve 
always said no — when there are plenty girls would say 
yes, too. But I tell you” — and here he drew out a pistol 
and toyed with it — “ I mean to have this Yankee sweet- 
heart’s blood — except that I may prefer to capture him.” 

Penny felt a maddening impulse to slap his face : 
that this “ bomb-proof” who sneaked away from dan- 
ger while better men bled and died, should presume to 


I0 6 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

boast of capturing a man who was already in the ene- 
my’s power, was unendurable to this high-spirited wo- 
man, whose sense of honor and of duty was so far above 
her sense of danger. With difficulty she restrained the 
torrent of invective that rushed to her lips ; but the sight 
of the pistol in Luke Rossers craven hand taught her a 
quick discretion, for there rushed to her mind with agon- 
izing clearness, the recollection of Kenric’s cruel sus- 
picion — a suspicion hardly heeded at the moment, but 
stinging her now, with keenest pain. Should Morrison 
Kenric die by that pistol, he would die with that suspi- 
cion burning in his heart, and how could she live through 
the torture of such a thought ? With scarce a moment’s 
hesitation, her resolution was taken. 

“Listen to me, Luke Rosser,” she said, calmly. 
“ That man is no sweetheart of mine. He has a wife. 
He is not, he never was sweetheart of mine : but he was 
a friend to me, a good friend ; he educated me ; what I 
am, he made me. I have hidden him in this wood, as 
you know, and I mean to save him if my own life pays 
the forfeit. I mean to take him away this night ; but I 
must have help. Give me that help, and I will marry 
you to-morrow night.” 

“ Good Lord ! You don’t mean it ? ” Luke Rosser 
gasped. He was desperately in love with Penny, and 
Penny knew it. 

“ You’ve known me for nearly three years,” she said ; 
“ and you know that I keep my word.” 

“ I know it, but swear it, Penny, swear it I” 

“ I solemnly swear,” said Penny, lifting her right 
hand, “that if by your help I can take Morrison Kenric 
away this night, I will return and marry you to-morrow 
night, so help me God. ” 

“Amen,” said Luke Rosser, with an unction that 
touched Penny’s woman heart with a scornful pity, the 
first feeling akin to tenderness he had ever roused in 
her breast. 

“ But mind you,” said she, “ you must do your part. 
You must have me a horse saddled and bridled and tied 
here in this thicket by five o’clock this evening” — for 
Penny used the Southern term for afternoon. 

“ Where is your own horse ? ” Luke Rosser asked. 

“ Never you mind. Will you do as I tell you ? ” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


107 


“ Yes ; oh yes,” he answered, sullenly. 

“ And I must have a pistol loaded ready ; mind you 
get it,” said Penny, with stern authority; for though in 
her extremity she had unshrinkingly sold herself to this 
man, she distinctly recognized the fact that she had 
bought him with a price and she meant he should obey 
her orders now. 

“You talk like a general in the army,” said Luke 
Rosser, with half-reluctant admiration. P'raps you 
better take this one now ? ” 

“All right,” said Penny, promptly, and before he 
could change his mind, the pistol he had offered more 
in jest than in earnest, was in her basket, and he was 
ashamed to ask its return. “ And you bring the horse 
at five o’clock ; be sure you bring the horse,” said 
Penny. 

“ I’ll not forget, you better believe, after what you’ve 
promised,” Luke returned with exultation. 

“ Yes ; provided you keep at home,” cautioned Penny. 
“Keep your own counsel, and keep mine ; and I’ll keep 
my promise to you.” 

“ I suppose I may take out the license ? To-morrow 
will be Sunday.” 

“ Yes,” said Penny; “you may,” She turned to go, 
but he called to her. 

“ Stop, Penny ! There’s just this I want to say. You 
— you’re going away — into danger, p’raps, and you’ve 
got me cornered so's I can’t prevent you, and — and — I 
don’t see exactly, as I could join your expedition — ” 

“ I don’t want you ! ” said Penny. 

“ Oh, it ain’t that ! But you see, as you’ve promised 
to be my wife, yon might give me a parting kiss ?” 

How Penny Lancaster hated that kiss, then and after- 
wards ! But she knew that it would seal Luke’s faith 
in her promise, and she did not hesitate ; she retraced 
the few steps she had taken, and kissed him. 

“That in token of my trust in you,” she said, with 
half-repressed resentment. “But, mind you, Luke Ros- 
ser, if you fail me, if Morrison Kenric comes to harm 
through your treachery, or your folly — I’ll shoot you ; 
I’ll follow till I find you, and then I’ll shoot you ; you’ll 
never escape my vengeance.” 

“ Shoot me ? Most likely,” muttered Luke Rosser, 


lo8 PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER . 

as he looked after Penny hurrying back to Mrs. Mea- 
don’s. “ She’s got mo’ grit than many a man I know. 
It’s wuth while to save a Yankee to get her.” 

And he turned away from the wood, and set his face 
towards town. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A FAREWELL. 

Rapidly retracing her steps Penny soon arrived again 
at the high rail fence that separated the domestic prem- 
ises of the Meadons from the fields. She climbed over, . 
hastened across the yard and entered the house by the 
back door. The walk had calmed her excitement suffi- 
ciently to enable her to meet Mrs. Meadon with the 
composure necessary to the safety of her secret. 

“ Found walking tiresome, didn’t you ? Mud is stiff 
at this season,” said Mrs. Meadon in a tone of “I told 
you so.” 

‘‘Yes,” answered Penny. “ I’ve come back for my 
horse. I’ve changed my mind ; I’m going over the 
mountain — it has been some time since I saw my 
cousin — ” 

“ Well, I approve of that, Penny, ’’said Mrs. Meadon, 
cordially. “ Your cousin is growing old, and kin is 
kin, you know.” 

The blood rushed to Penny’s face. She hated a lie, 
and she had carefully worded her announcement so as 
not to lie with her lips ; but she had meant to deceive, 
for she dared not take Mrs. Meadon into her confidence ; 
yet shame almost overpowered her satisfaction when 
she found that she had succeeded. She was indeed 
going across the mountain, but by a road that did not 
lead in the direction of Miss ZobeliaAnn Loftus’s home. 

“ You’d better tell Christie to saddle your horse right 
away. I’ll fix you up a snack in a twinkling, for indeed 
you’ve no time to lose,” Mrs. Meadon declared, as she 
went bustling about. 

“ No, indeed; ” Penny emphatically assented, think- 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


109 


ing of her starving man under the hurricane stump, and 
in the thought forgiving herself the lie of which she had 
been guilty. She shut herself within her room while 
she waited for her horse, and throwing herself upon 
her knees, prayed fervently, not for her own safety, but 
for the safety of the friend she was determined to rescue, 
at whatever cost to herself. 

She came out, after this, with Luke Rosser's pistol 
stuck in her belt, and a bottle of brandy in her hand. 
The history of this bottle Mrs. Meadon did not know, 
but of its existence she had long been cognizant, and she 
had almost come to consider herself part owner at least, 
on the strength of the anticipation that her husband, 
Major Boscobel Meadon might return some day, pros- 
trated by wounds, or fever, to be built up by the con- 
tents of that same precious black bottle. She eyed it 
askance, as Penny came forth, and ventured the sug- 
gestion that old Miss Loftus not knowing about the 
brandy, would just as soon have blackberry wine, 
which Mrs. Meadon professed a great willingness to 
spare in exchange for the superior article. 

But Penny said “ No.” 

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Meadon, renewing the attack 
by a flank movement, “there's half a dozen hard boiled 
eggs in this basket, Penny, and some buttered biscuits. 
And you’ll find salt in the little box, and fried chicken 
and potatoes, the best I can do for you. You can hang 
the basket on the horn of your saddle ; but — that bottle 
will be main unhandy, I’m thinking. The half of it, 
now, seeing you are bent on being generous, the half 
of it, in a physic-bottle would be more convenient to 
carry. '' 

But Penny was not to be so persuaded. 

“Well, surely, I admire free-handedness as much as 
anybody,” said Mrs. Meadon, with a martyred air ; 
“but I must say it looks like a reckless flying in the 
face of Providence to carry free-handedness too far. 
Why, Penny, s'pose sickness should overtake you ? 
You might die for lack of a little of that very brandy ! ” 

“ Nobody's loss/’ said Penny, with irresistible bitter- 
ness, thinking of her marriage on the morrow. 

“And I’m blessed if you are not carrying a cork- 
screw ! ” exclaimed Mrs, Meadon. 


I IO 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


“ You know I can bring that back,” said Penny, 
hastily, as she turned away to mount her horse. 

“Well, to be sure, a wilful woman must have her 
way,” said Mrs. Meadon resignedly, as she beheld the 
basket with the bottle in it, dangling at the horn of the 
saddle. “When are you coming back ? ” 

“To-morrow night, please God;” Penny called back, 
as she rode out of the gate, which an old gray-headed 
negro held open. 

The dogs barked, the children shouted, and Penny, 
for a moment forgetting discretion, set off at a gallop. 

“ What possesses her, I wonder to ride at that gait? ” 
said Mrs. Meadon to herself, left alone upon the porch. 
“She must forget that she has a good ten miles ahead 
of her.” 

But Penny quickly recovered herself and checked her 
horse, riding slowly, and not daring to enter the wood 
until she was securely out of sight of the house. The 
moment she felt sure that her course could no longer be 
watched, she turned aside from the road, urging her 
horse forward as rapidly as the surrounding growth 
would permit. When she reached the thicket, she dis- 
mounted, led her horse behind a belt of low, bushy 
cedars, and having tied him there, hastened with her 
basket to Kenric’s hiding-place. 

The appalling stillness around struck a chill to her 
heart. Not a sound was to be heard, save the occa- 
sional, low, sad rustle of the dry leaves. What if he had 
died where she had hid him ? Perished of hunger and 
cold, and exhaustion ! What if he had been discovered 
and murdered there ? War or no war, such a taking-off 
would be murder. Trembling so that she could hardly 
stand, she leaned above the brush-heaped hollow, and 
through the ragged boughs she had piled above him she 
saw him lying so still she thought he must be dead, and 
a cry sprang from her heart to her lips. 

Faint as was that cry, it woke him. “Oh, my good 
friend, Penny ; ” he said eagerly. “Have you come at 
last ? And have you brought me something to eat P ” 

“Yes, oh, yes : ” Penny answered with joyful relief. 
“ But I can’t have you make yourself ill with eating too 
much, remember.” 

He pushed away the brush with which he was cov- 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


Ill 


ered, so that he could sit partly upright, and took the 
food she gave him until she would give him no more. 

“ No, ” she said in answer to his appeals, and with 
the same half-persuasive, half authoritative tone she had 
used towards him years before, when he was ill at Lan- 
caster’s Tavern, “You can have no more. It is but 
little past noon ; you can’t leave here before dusk ; then 
you shall have some supper.” 

“But I am so confoundedly cold; ” he complained. 
“And cramped, and stiff.” 

“ Stay a moment,” Penny answered. “See; nere 
is some brandy for you, if you can drink it from the 
bottle?” 

“Surely I can, if I must ; ” he assented, with a laugh. 
Then when he had tasted. “French brandy, as I live ; ” 
he exclaimed. “ Where did you get this, Penny ?” 

“ You are only drinking your own,” said Penny. “ I 
brought it away from the tavern. You left it there, after 
that spell of fever, don’t you know ? ” 

“ Why that is years ago ; ” cried Kenric. “ Penny, 
Penny, you are my good angel ! What a wonderfully 
provident little angel ; I trust myself to you with abso- 
lute, unquestionable security, General Lancaster.” 

“ I am going to take you across the mountains this 
night,” said Penny ; “ but I must leave you until the 
time comes. I know every path and secret way around 
here. I have my horse which you sent back to me, and 
you are to ride him. Oh, don’t you see,” she interrupted 
herself, with a burst of deep feeling, “ how it is the 
good you do that saves you ? ” 

“But how will you ride and how will you return ? ” 
asked Kenric. 

“There will be a horse brought to this wood by five 
o’clock, saddled with a man’s saddle, but we will change 
the saddles, for my horse, I know, can be depended 
upon.” 

“ Another horse ? And who will bring this horse?” 
asked Kenric, with quick misgiving. 

“ The man I am to marry,” answered Penny. 

“Ah, so ? Then he mav be trusted. And you are to 
be married, Penny ? ” 

“ If he does not fail me. 

“ How ‘ fail you ’ ? Is it possible he could play fast 


1 1 2 PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 

and loose with you, Penny ? Does he not know your 
worth ? ” 

‘ ‘ I trust he will not play fast and loose with me ; ” 
cried Penny, clasping her hands nervously. “ It would 
be the worse for him, if he did. ” 

Kenric laughed. “And he can forgive your rescu- 
ing a Yankee ? ” 

“I suppose so,” said Penny, uneasily. “Now I 
must go. I dare not stay here; somebody might be 
coming. ” 

“One word — just one word more, Penny,” Kenric 
entreated. “You love this man you are to marry ? ” 

“Oh, never mind about him,” said Penny, im- 
patiently, as she moved away. 

She dared not linger in the vicinity of the wood, so 
she mounted her horse again, and went slowly away, 
by an old abandoned road, where there was little prob- 
ability of meeting any one. When, at last, after, as 
seemed to her, endless hours, the sinking sun sent its 
red and wintry gleam through the leafless boughs, she 
hastened to the spot where Luke Rosser had promised 
to have the horse in readiness for her. 

The horse was not there. For a moment her brain 
reeled with an agony of rage and dread, for Penny was 
faint with hunger, excitement, and fatigue. She had not 
tasted a mouthful of food since breakfast, because she 
knew that the rations Mrs. Meadon had provided would 
not suffice for two, and she hoarded what remained for 
Kenric alone. 

For an instant only, Penny’s brain reeled ; the spirit in 
her was stronger than the flesh, and scorned the body’s 
weakness ; she roused herself to devise some new plan 
for her prisoner’s escape. But just as she had reluct- 
antly decided to send Kenric away alone, to put his for- 
tune to the touch upon unknown paths, she heard the 
sound of hoofs rustling the fallen leaves, and Luke Ros- 
ser rode into the wood. Penny who had already dis- 
mounted, ran toward him with outstretched hands.. 

“ Oh, my Godt ” she cried. “ I was afraid you had 
failed me.” 

“ No danger,” answered Luke Rosser, as he got down 
from his horse. “Between your promise and your 
threat, I’m bound to come up to the scratch.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


“Oh, I'll keep my promise, indeed I will ; ” Penny 
exclaimed hysterically. “ Only help me to change these 
saddles ? ” 

“ No ; I'll be shot first ; ” said Luke Rosser, doggedly. 
“ I wish I may die if I stir hand or foot more for that 
Yankee of yours, and be hanged to him — until I have 
my say out with you. You look like a ghost, and you 
ought to be taking some care oiyourself. But I don’t 
suppose it’s any use talking.” 

“ Not a bit!” said Penny, sturdily tugging at the 
saddle girth. 

“ See here, Miss Penny ! Stop that ! ” exclaimed Luke. 
“ I’ll fix them saddles in a minute ; but for the Lord’s 
sake stop and eat something. I’ve brought you a snack, 
for you’ll never get through the job you’ve taken in hand 
without a good, stout meal. You see,” he added, 
sheepishly, “ you’re the woman I love, and I am bound 
to look after your comfort, whatever befalls the Yan- 
kee. ” 

Penny stopped short in the work of changing the sad- 
dles, shaken by a sudden pang of pity and contrition. 
Here was this man whom in her heart she despised for 
a cowardly truant in time of danger, providing for her 
need at the prompting of his heart ; while the man for 
whom she was willing to risk more than life to save from 
capture, had eaten at her hands, and never once had asked 
whether she herself might not need the food she gave. 
True, Penny knew that Kenric would never have let her 
go hungry had he known it ; that he did not know it ; 
that he did not divine her need, was simply the difference 
between the man who loved her, and the half-starved man 
who welcomed her as a friend in his need; but it was a 
difference that made Penny’s eyes fill up with sudden 
tears. “ He will make a good husband, maybe,” she 
sighed to herself, as she sat down, at his suggestion, up- 
on a moss-grown stump ; “ but I shall wish myself 
dead a thousand times.” 

Despite this despondent view, however, Penny, who 
was of a robust constitution, ate with keen appetite the 
biscuits and bacon her lover had brought her, while he 
silently proceeded to change the saddles. 

“And now, what more can I do for you, Miss Penny? ” 
he asked, when the meal was over. 


PENNY LANCASTER , EARNER. 


H4 

“ One thing more,” said the insatiate Penny, “ give 
me your hat. ” 

“ My hat P” said her lover, blankly. It was a very 
good felt that Luke, who was something of a dandy, 
took great pride in, and cherished with care. 

“ Yes! Yes! Your hat!” reiterated Penny, who 
had mounted his horse without his assistance, while he 
stood half-stunned by the exorbitance of her demand. 

“ For yourself ?” he asked, as he slowly took it off 
and eyed it with affectionate admiration. 

“ Don’t you see,” said Penny, impatiently, as she 
stooped from her horse, and almost snatched the hat 
from his reluctant hands, “ that if he wears his soldier’s 
cap he’ll be more likely to be noticed ? And now — ” she 
added with a complete change of tone and manner, 
“ good-bye, Luke ! I thank you ! Oh, indeed I do, for all 
you’ve done. Go home and wait for me until to-morrow 
night. You have not failed me, I shall not fail you.” 
And she waved her hand in farewell, as, riding one horse 
and leading the other, she turned towards the thicket. 

Luke stood gazing after her, and shivering from head 
to foot with superstitious, dread “ They say it’s bad luck, 
swapping hats after sundown, and maybe I ain’t never 
goingto set eyes on her again. Oh, Penny, Penny ! Lord 
bless you, and send you back safe and sound, and the 
Devil may take the Yankee ! ” 

Arrived once more at Kenric’s hiding-place, Penny 
hurriedly disencumbered him of the mass of brush-wood, 
and helped him to rise. 

“ You must hide your cap and wear this hat,” she 
said ; “ I’ll feel safer so.” 

Kenric smiled as he obeyed. “You are a masterful 
little woman, Penny,” he said, admiringly. 

But Penny did not smile ; she was in no mood to be 
elated by compliments. “ Here is a pistol for you.” 
she added, gravely. 

“ Why, I have my pistol,” answered Kenric. “ Keep 
that yourself, Penny ; you may need it on your return. ” 

They mounted their horses and rode swiftly and in 
silence. It was already dark, and Penny believed that 
if she could only get safely out of the wood and into a 
certain road, lonely and little frequented, but well known 
to her, that she might feel secure of escape ; therefore, 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


"5 

not until they were some miles on their way would 
Penny allow her charge time for food. 

The wind had risen, after they started, and the night 
proved wild and stormy, the road rough and long. They 
went warily through the dark, keeping close together 
and talking but little. At intervals they spoke of the old 
time before the war, when Kenric vegetated at Lancas- 
ter’s Tavern and Penny was his pupil. 

“ I remember saying, when I undertook your instruc- 
tion,” whispered Kenric, “that I had an idea I should be 
better paid, some future day, than any money could pay 
me. Oh, Penny, my brave Penny ! what a prophecy ! ” 
And he stretched his hand across the darkness and 
pressed hers. 

“Oh, why do you not go home?” sighed Penny, 
with passionate adjuration. “ What business is it of 
yours to be fighting people who have never interfered 
with you ? ” 

Kenric shook his head, though in the darkness he 
knew she could not see him. “ You and I, cannot dis- 
cuss that question, Penny,” he said, and sighed. 

“But you have a wife and child,” she insisted; 
“ you belong to them.” 

Kenric sighed. “ My wife is in Europe,” he said. 

“And you — here!” said Penny, with hot indigna- 
tion ; and then she was made aware by his silence that 
Kenric’s marriage had not been happy. “ And the 
boy ? ” she asked, anxiously. 

“ Ah, yes, the boy ! ” Kenric responded, in a tone be- 
tween gladness and anguish. “ Harry is nearly ten 
years old now. I wish I could show him to you, 
Penny. ” 

Penny’s heart gave a great throb that choked her ut- 
terance a moment. 

“ Some day, perhaps,” said she, brokenly. “Is he 
in this country ? ” 

“ He is in this country. 

“ Some day then,” said Penny again. 

By the time the sun was in the sky again, they had 
safely passed the lines, beyond all fear of danger ; and 
they halted by the roadside a few moments, before say- 
ing farewell. 


! 1 6 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

“ I think I can walk the rest of the way/' saidKenric. 
They had dismounted by way of resting. 

“ No/’ said Penny; “ No, no. The horse is mine, 
and I give him to you. But,” she hastened to explain, 
in great confusion “only the side saddleis mine; the 
other saddle, the hat, the pistol,— all these belong to— 
the man I am to marry.” 

“ I can go without the hat, seeing that I still have my 
cap ; and I can dispense with the pistol, having my 
own, as I told you, ” said Kenric, laughing at her per- 
plexity ; “but I’ll ride bare-backed before I’ll be seen 
on a woman’s saddle.” 

“Never mind,” said Penny, with sudden resolution ; 

‘ * keep the saddle. ” 

“And the man you are to marry — you haven’t told 
me his name, Penny ? ” 

“Luke Rosser is his name,” Penny answered, me- 
chanically. 

“Will he come to meet you? And will he forgive 
your rescuing me ? ” 

“What does it matter?” Penny exclaimed, turning 
away, impatiently. She hated the thought of Luke 
Rosser. 

“You are safe ; that is enough.” 

“No ; it is not enough ; will he come to meet you? ” 
Kenric persisted. 

“Perhaps,” said Penny, with a sober conviction that 
he would do nothing of the kind ; but Kenric attributing 
her reticence to embarrassment, took comfort in the 
thought that she would be cared for at least on a part of 
her return trip. 

The time had come to say good-bye to her once more, 
and he had no words in which to express his gratitude 
and admiration. 

“If I live, Penny,” he faltered — and then he suddenly 
bared his head, knelt down and kissed her hand : there 
was no other way to tell her what he felt 

Penny did not speak, nor look towards him ; she got 
upon her horse and rode away. . 

A drizzling rain was falling, and the wind was bleak, 
but Penny Lancaster was conscious only of the fact that 
she was going back to marry Luke Rosser, to make a 
sacrifice of her life more dreadful than yielding it up to 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. II7 

death. The excitement that had sustained her through 
her hazardous undertaking had subsided, and she no 
longer felt herself a woman of heroic mould, but only 
a miserable victim, ready for the sacrifice. She had 
saved her friend, but at how tremendous a cost to her- 
self he would never know. She thought of the pistol 
she carried, and in terror of the temptation to take her 
own life, she hurled it far into the woods, then dropped 
the bridle upon her horse’s neck, and burst into violent 
weeping. 

But the thought that she might by any evasion or 
postponement, escape the fulfillment of her word never 
once entered her upright mind. Her one fit of weeping 
over the ruin of her future indulged in, Penny Lancas- 
ter was herself again, and she rode on calmly, deter- 
mined to redeem her promise, to marry Luke and make 
the best of it. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE INDEPENDENT VIEWS OF MISS ZOBELIA ANN LOFTUS. 

It was already growing dark when Penny came in 
sight of Mrs. Meadon’s house, but still she could see, as 
she rode into the gate that a little crowd had assembled 
there, and her heart swelled with resentment against the 
precipitate bridegroom. A moment before, she had 
been glad that he had not ridden to meet her, she had 
been thankful to escape the manifestation of a devotion 
that irritated her because she could not respond to it ; 
but now, with true feminine inconsistency, she railed at 
him in her heart for gathering a crowd to witness the 
wedding, instead of concerning himself about her safety. 
“ He may be trusted to keep out of harm’s way,” she 
bitterly thought. 

On the piazza were several men, soldiers in Confeder- 
ate uniform : not one of them offered to assist her to 
dismount ; they stared at her sternly, as she came up 
the steps, but not one of them offered to remove his hat 
— a discourtesy she was too wearied and excited to note. 

She passed on into the house, where she found a little 
knot of women gathered around Mrs. Meadon, who was 


1 1 8 PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 

rocking herself violently in the great rocking-chair, and 
dabbling her face with a handkerchief that exhaled a 
strong odor of camphor. 

“That ever such a thing should happen under my 
roof, before my very face !” wailed Mrs. Meadon. “To 
think that with my husband away in the army, I should 
have harbored,” — but catching sight of Penny. “Oh, 
woman ! ” she cried, hysterically, “ do you know what 
you have done ! ” 

“Yes,” answered Penny, who was far from taking in 
the situation. “ I have promised to marry Luke Rosser 
this night. I am ready to keep my word.” 

“ It is true, then ! ” shrieked Mrs. Meadon. “Oh, why 
should such a calamity come upon me, a poor, un- 
offending woman ? ” 

Penny had been a valuable assistant to Mrs. Meadon, 
and it seemed, therefore, not unnatural that this nervous, 
timid, dependent woman should raise a cry against a 
marriage that must rob her of the comfort of such a 
stay. Until this moment, Penny had not perceived her 
want of consideration towards her hostess, in appoint- 
ing the marriage so suddenly. 

“I — I am very sorry,” she faltered. “Your house 
has been a good home to me, Mrs. Meadon ; I ought 
to have allowed myself time to consult your con- 
venience, but — the circumstances were such — ” 

“And it’s all true, no doubt,” moaned Mrs. Meadon. 
“Penny — Penny Lancaster, you deceived me; you’ve 
never been near your cousin Zobelia.” 

Penny turned a shade paler, but she did not hesitate 
an instant. “No,” she answered, firmly. “ I have not 
been near my cousin.” 

She would have preferred never to reveal what she 
had done for Morrison Kenric, but his safety now as- 
sured, she scorned to take refuge in subterfuge or 
evasion. 

“Oh, Penny, Penny Lancaster,” burst forth the 
chorus of women. “To think that you, a Southern girl 
nursing Confederate soldiers and knitting ’em socks, and 
even skrimping yourself to feed ’em, and spinning, and 
weaving, and all — should be piloting a Yankee, and a 
Colonel at that, by night, out of our lawful reach.” 

A man in a shabby Confederate uniform, with grizzled 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


1 19 

hair and beard, who had stood silent against the oppo- 
site doorway, staring at Penny, exclaimed in a deep, 
indignant voice : 

“That infernal, irrepressible Yankee again ! ” 

Penny knew the voice ; it carried her back into the 
past with a rush, and made all the direful present like a 
dream. She stretched out her hands, appealingly. 
“Oh, Dr. Griffith,” she said, “ you know— -you under- 
stand?" 

“No ; I’ll be hanged if ever I understood you ! ” the 
Doctor answered, with mingled wrath and pity. “I 
took your part when everybody was against you at the 
Tavern ; I’ve borne you in mind ever since. It was that 
Yankee then — that Yankee now. I’ve found you at last 
He has always been in your way. Evil be the day that 
ever he set foot in Georgia.” 

“I cannot help it! ” exclaimed Penny. “If it were 
all to do over, I’d do the same.” 

“I’m sure of that! ” said Dr. Griffith, bitterly, as he 
strode away, while the women cried out in chorus : 

“ Oh, just to hear her ! She ain’t ashamed of it !” 

“No; I am not ashamed of it!” retorted Penny, 
stoutly. “ I’ve saved the best friend that ever I had ! ” 

“And he fighting against your country?” was the 
indignant remonstrance. 

Penny covered her face with her hands. “Do you 
think that it is not a grief to me ? ” said she, with a 
groan. 

“What ought to be done to you, Penny Lancaster?” 
said one woman fiercely. “I’ve lost kindred in this war. 
What ought to be done to the likes of you ? ” 

“I am sure I do not care what!” cried Penny. It 
seemed to her that nothing worse than marrying Luke 
Rosser could possibly happen to her. Was not that 
penalty enough for what she had done ? 

“I tell you what / think, Penny Lancaster,” said Mrs. 
Lou Allen, one of those whose cow had been restored 
at Mrs. Tobin’s instance, “ I’ve always liked you 
mighty well ; but as a God-fearing, patriotic woman, I 
do think you ought to be court-martialed — I am afraid. 
Just tried by way of example and acquitted, you know, 
Captain Caruthers ? ” she concluded, appealing to a 
seedy-looking man who had strayed into the room. 


120 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


“ She isn’t of the army,” said the Captain with forcible 
brevity. 

“A traitor and a spy!” groaned little Mrs. Tobin. 
“And to think how we went after the cows together, 
and she wouldn’t so much as touch his hand that day ! 
And we just boasting of her, ever since.” 

“I am neither traitor nor spy ! ” said Penny, lifting 
her head proudly. “The Almighty never made me to 
hand men over to each other for destruction ; and as for 
what I have done, I did it at my own cost. If Luke 
Rosser could have held his tongue, none of you would 
be the wiser.” For Penny had divined instantly that 
Luke had betrayed her secret, and a wild hope sprang 
up in her heart, that the universal condemnation visited 
upon her would prove too much for him to consent to 
share : yet no thought of shirking her promise entered 
her mind. “ I made my bargain,” said she ; “ and I’ll 
not rue it. You can tell Mr. Rosser — I’m ready.” 

“Tell Mr. Rosser!” shrieked Mrs. Meadon. “Oh, 
she don’t know ! She little dreams his blood is on her 
head ! ” 

“ What P” said Penny, hoarsely, as she staggered 
back against the wall. “ What do you mean ! ” 

The women wailed and sobbed in chorus. Captain 
Caruthers stepped forward and said gravely : 

“ He is dead, ma’am ; shot through the heart.” 

“ Po’ Luke ! ” said littte Mrs. Tobin, wiping her eyes. 
“ He was always dreadful scairt o’ guns, and to think he 
should have died of a gun at last ! ” 

Penny’s heart stood still ; she felt as if her blood had 
frozen in her veins. “ How did it happen ? ” she asked 
faintly. 

“Well — you see — ” Captain Caruthers began, hesitat- 
ingly — but little Mrs. Tobin having duly dried her tears, 
quickly interposed, and spared the rugged soldier the 
task he was loth to perform. 

“It was this morning — this blessed Sabbath morning,” 
she said, breathlessly, “aboto nine o’clock, he got 
with some of the boys — you see they had a private 
bottle, or more, maybe, and they stood treat — well, and 
everybody knows Luke’s failing — po’ Luke, I ain’t 
meaning to lay it up against him ; but they all got 
merry, and were a-joking Luke about his po’ success in 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


21 


his co’tship of you, Penny ; and Luke ups and tells how 
you were going to marry him to-night, and they thought 
it was all brag ; so, as you know when the wine is in, 
the wit is out — only it was whiskey, which it is worse — 
and Luke he blabbed the whole story. You know if it 
is true, Penny; how he furnished you a horse and a 
pistol to get the Yankee Colonel safe across the lines ; 
which the boys had been hunting for him ; and they 
being drunk, they swore at Luke for a sneak and a 
bomb-proof, and one of ’em had a pistol too handy — 
Oh, Lord ! Lord ! His po’ mother ! His po’ mother ! " 

Penny covered her face with her hands and shook 
from head to foot She had escaped the fate she abhor- 
red — but at the cost of a human life ! Exhausted by 
her long ride, her long fast — which had been longer yet, 
but for Luke Rosser’s forethought — and by that intense 
excitement under which she had labored for the past 
thirty-six hours, she was incapable of taking a reason- 
able, dispassionate view of the case. Luke Rosser’s 
blood seemed to cry aloud against her, and urged by 
a maddening impulse to rush away and hide herself 
forever from the sight of mankind, she started wildly 
forward at a run ; but fell insensible before she reached 
the door. 

When she recovered from this swoon, she was de- 
lirious, and for the first time in her life, Penny Lancas- 
ter had a long and serious illness, through which Mrs. 
Meadon nursed her faithfully and kindly, though not 
without an occasional reminder that a little good French 
brandy, “ if it could be had for love or money,” was 
just the needful thing to build up a constitution wasted 
by fever. 

Penny Lancaster came out of this fever a changed 
creature both to herself and others. Her girlhood was 
gone ; in token whereof she ceased to be called Penny, 
and henceforward was known of all as Miss Penny, a 
grave and saddened woman, who inspired respect but 
did not seek affection. Her swooning and long illness 
had given rise to the belief that she had really felt an 
attachment for Luke Rosser, and it came at last to be 
conceded that his death had been her punishment. She 
found sympathy, instead of blame. 

She found also two strong champions. The first was 


22 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


Major Boscobel Meadon, who came home on furlough 
just as Miss Penny began to creep about. He had 
learned the whole story from his wife by letter, and to 
Mrs. Meadon’s amazement, he was hilarious over his 
guest’s achievement. 

“It was a bold thing to do!” he declared, with 
hearty admiration. “ She deserves to be breveted 
hanged if she doesn’t ! ” 

“For rescuing a Yankee ? ” said Mrs. Meadon, with 
the falling inflection of extreme bewilderment. “ Bosco, 
do you mean to say that you would do such a thing ? ” 

“ Of course not; Sallie. Don’t you appreciate the 
fact that I am in a different position ? ” 

Mrs. Meadon heaved a sigh of relief. “ I was afraid,” 
said she, “ that you would turn her out of the house as 
soon as you came home.” 

“ Turn a brave woman out of my house ? Why, you 
wouldn’t let me ! ” said the Major, with his big laugh. 

Mrs. Meadon blushed at the compliment. “If it 
hadn’t been for the sweetheart getting killed, and her 
lying at death’s door with that fever, we would all have 
been calling her a traitor,” said she, complacently. 

“ She is no traitor at all,” said Major Meadon, with 
some warmth. “You women are forever complaining 
that men don’t understand you ; but the surprising 
thing to me is, that in some cases you can't understand a 
woman. I’ll venture to say Miss Penny would have 
done the identical same thing for a Confederate. ” 

And when he put the question to Miss Penny, Miss 
Penny replied with unconscious tact, that she certainly 
would do as much for so good a friend as Major 
Meadon. 

Mrs. Meadon, whose conscience had been a little un- 
easy about harboring a traitor, now made herself com- 
fortable in the assurance that she might, with safety and 
propriety, continue to keep this invaluable companion 
with her ; but about the end of January Miss Penny’s 
second champion appeared. 

This was Miss Zobelia Ann Loftus. She arrived at 
Mrs. Meadon s late in the afternoon, half-frozen, having 
been all day making the trip through snow and mire 
But Miss Loftus belonged to the unterrified, and she had 
her own way of levying a welcome. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


1 23 

*' I*d like a cup o' coffee — the best ye got — hot and 
strong, right away,” said she. “And I let ye know I’m 
expectin’ to stay all night — me and my team. ” 

Mrs. Meadon led the old lady in to the fire, and gave 
her a comfortable chair. “You shall have the coffee 
as soon as it can be made,” said she, with kindly hos- 
pitality ; “and I’ll send right away and have your horses 
put in the stable.” 

“ Oxen, good woman, oxen. Ain’t ye seen their 
horns ? My one horse is safe at home. I’m thankful 
to glory I had sense enough not to resk a horse on sich 
a road in sich a wea'ther. And how is Penthesilea ? 
Hear she’s been — well take it altogether, I should say, 
from what I hear, she’s been —extraordinary , eh ? ” 

“ She has been quite seriously ill,” Mrs. Meadon said, 
with a foreboding that Miss Loftus meant to take the 
treasure away, “and she is quite feeble still.” 

“Well, fetch her, fetch her; it’s Penthesilea I come 
to see, mostly ,” said Miss Loftus, with candor un- 
abashed ; and Mrs. Meadon sent for Penny, who came 
creeping feebly into the room, too listless for surprise or 
pleasure. 

“ Land sake !” exclaimed Miss Loftus, shocked at her 
appearance. “Why, ye are as bloodless as a turnip ! 
Why, girl, do it cost as much as that to save a Yankee? 
Drat him ! ” 

Penny burst into tears. 

“ You see she is not herself,” said Mrs. Meadon, dep- 
recatingly, in fear that Miss Loftus would take the 
unresisting Pefmy away. 

“ No ; and she ain’t likely to be, pokin’ round here,” 
said the determined Miss Loftus. “She needs a change, 
that girl do, after all she’s been through. Well ! well ! ” 
And Miss Loftus broke into a laugh that had a harsh, 
but not a heartless sound. “There, Penthesilea, ye air 
too big a girl to cry — specially over what’s gone and 
done with. But it do amuse me just to think ” — and 
Miss Loftus held her sides with laughter — “how it used 
to be a sayin’, No fool like a Lancaster fool. By the 
blessin’ o’ Providence ye war saved from reapin’ of a fool’s 
harvest, else I shouldn’t be able to laugh at ye. Ain’t 
I been tellin’ ye this war ain’t none o’ your fuss ? Let 
them fight it what made it. Ef ye had listened to me. 


I 24 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


and come up in the mounting out o’ harm’s reach — ye’d 
a missed somethin’. But ye air a Lancaster fool, and 
I’m jest as proud o’ ye as I kin be. I declar’, when I 
hear how you bossed that runaway job o’ the Yankee 
Colonel, old as I be, I flung up my bonnet, and I hop- 
ped, I did — whereby I give myself a strain in the back, 
like a Lancaster fool — with my jubilation. Not that I 
keer a scratch for the Yankee, mind you; what’s his 
business here ? Ef all these men, both sides, would 
jest go home and mind their fields, there wouldn’t be no 
war ; but the last one of ’em will toil and moil in the 
field o’ glory a sight more ’n they’ll work in the field 
o’corn. It’s laziness at the bottom of it all, I say, and I 
got no patience with ’em. But come buss me, girl ; 
I’m proud o’ your grit. You ought to be a Captain 1 
say ; but ye air only a girl, and so much the better 
for me ! Now, I come to take ye away to-morrow ! ” 

“Oh, she isn’t able to take such a trip ! ” Mrs. Mea- 
don remonstrated. 

“ Don’t tell me ! ” retorted Miss Loftus, disdainfully. 
“ I’m a-goin’ to take her up the mounting. That’s what 
I come for, I’ll let ye know.” 

And on the morrow, Miss Loftus carried out her 
design, in spite of every objection Mrs. Meadon could 
raise. Penny, though she seemed to yield for lack of 
power to resist, was, in fact, glad to escape from the 
scene of a tragedy dreadful to remember, yet impossible 
to forget. She bade farewell to Mrs. Meadon, whom 
she never saw again ; for it was not Major Boscobel 
whom the war brought to an untimely end, but his 
anxious, timid, nervous little wife. She died in the 
spring, soon after peace was declared ; but she died in 
her husband’s arms. 

“ Ye’ll be a new crittur, Penthesilea, ” said Miss 
Loftus, cheerily, as she guided her team up the ‘ ‘ mount- 
ing,” “by time ye air a week with me. The mounting 
is so quiet ; and presently the winter 'll be gone, and 
the garden ’ll be takin’ a start, and hens a settin’. Lots 
to do.” 

Now Miss Loftus, though she spoke independent 
English and drove her own team, was by no means an 
ignorant mountaineer. She had made her home in that 
retired spot many years before because she fancied that 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


I2 5 

her health required mountain air, and because she was 
eccentric enough to be content with a life of almost 
absolute solitude ; but her home was no rough log- 
cabin. She had built herself a convenient and sub- 
stantial frame-house of four rooms, and she lived in all 
of them. She was the owner of five or six slaves whom 
she ruled rigidly, though not unkindly, and she clothed 
herself and them in cloth woven on her own place. Her 
floors too were covered with rag carpets of her own 
manufacture, and her table was supplied chiefly from 
her farm. She worked hard, lived content, and every 
year laid by a little money in gold, which she would 
not trust in any bank, but hoarded securely under the 
bricks of her hearth. But of late Miss Loftus had rec- 
ognized the fact that she was growing old. She had 
begun to feel lonely, and though she was still active 
and strong these were times when her heart failed her in 
view of a helpless old age. And now, just as she began 
to realize her possible need of companionship, Provi- 
dence had thrown this capable young relative in hei' 
way. Ever since the day of her first interview with 
Penny, Miss Loftus had been struggling for the undis- 
puted possession of her young cousin struggling against 
Mrs. Meadon’s sense of proprietorship, and Penny’s 
sense of obligation ; and now that she had come off 
conqueror at last, her elation would not bear repres- 
sion. 

“Mighty po’ stick, Mrs. Meadon,” said she. “Can’t 
get along without leanin’ onto you, spite of all them 
niggers and children around her.” 

Penny’s spirit had not utterly forsaken her. “ I won’t 
hear a word against Mrs. Meadon,” said she; “her 
house has been my home. ” 

“Well, it ain’t goin’to be your home no longer, mind 
ye. And ye got no excuse to talk until ye git under 
shelter, lest ye take a cough to last ye all spring ; but 
I'm a-going to say my say, which I’ve said it before, 
and shall say it again ; and which it is that ye ain’t a 
nigger, and ye don’t belong to no Meadons that is.” 


126 


PENNY LANCASTER. FARMER. 


CHAPTER XV. 

ALL THINGS COME TO THEM THAT KNOW HOW TO WAIT. 

‘ ‘ Penthesilea, I got somethin' to tell ye," said Miss 
Loftus, in a voice of mystery, calculated to rouse the 
dullest mind. 

Penthesilea was seated in a big arm-chair with a 
pillow at her back, and her feet to the fire. The wintry 
sun shone in at the two square windows that lighted 
Miss Loftus’s bedroom ; the clock ticked above the 
mantel, a gray cat purred on the reddened hearth beside 
the churn, while from somewhere in the unseen dis- 
tance came the droning of an incessant spinning-wheel, 
and the subdued, monotonous bang-bang and clatter of 
the busy loom. Penthesilea’s hands were folded in her 
lap, and her eyes were closed ; though she had had a 
good night’s rest, she was very tired, and she did not 
respond to her cousin’s announcement. 

Miss Loftus thought this state of apathy a symptom 
to be combatted, and she said again, with rather more 
mystery : 

“I got somethin’ to tell ye ain’t expectin’ to hear. 
I ain't cared to mention it to the Meadons. ’’ 

Penny opened her eyes. 

“Yes," said Miss Loftus, exhilarated by this sign of 
interest ; “ ye’d hardly expect news to travel up to this 
little shelf on the mounting, would ye, now, Penthe- 
silea?’’ 

But Penthesilea, under the impression that her 
cousin was only trying to rouse her, sighed and said, 
indifferently : 

“ I don’t know.’’ 

‘ ‘Well, / know, ’’ said Miss Loftus, no whit discouraged. 
“Queer things happen in lonesome places, when you 
least expect ’em ; and the news o’ what ye done for the 
Yankee Colonel, and how ye war born-lucky to escape 
your promise to Luke Rosser — which you better been 
hung than married to — come jest as straight to this 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


127 

door as a bee to the hive, ’count of me bein’ your kin, 
you see ? 

“I was a settin’ here by the fire, and the wind howlin’, 
and niggers and cattle all under shelter, when I heard a 
horse, tromp, tromp. If I was a-minded, I could en- 
courage myself to be a mighty coward, but I ain’t so 
minded. I tuk out my pistol, and I set my gun ready, 
and I listened and I heard that tromp, tromp, nearer and 
nearer, and it came close beside the window ; and next 
I hear a man’s voice cussin’ the dog, and then a man’s 
step onto my front porch, and says I to myself, ‘Zobelia 
Ann Loftus, it is time ye war inquirin’ into this business, 
which I did. I histed a crack in the window, and says 
I : ‘ Who be ye, and what do ye want ? ’ The man was 
a knockin’ at the door, and he says, * If Miss Loftus 
lives here, I am an old friend out of Habersham.’ 

“Well, Penthesilea, if he had a pinted a pistol, I 
couldn’t a jumped wuss’n I did ! Why, it’s been a good 
quarter of a century since I was to Habersham County, 
Georgia, whar we all hailed from ; and I just flung my 
door wide, and said, ‘ Walk in to a welcome, if ye come 
from Habersham.’ 

“ It didn’t make no difference to me, seein’ he hailed 
from Habersham, whether he was Confed or Yankee, 
but I see at once that he had on the gray — precious 
rusty it was, too — and the man, he was like his clothes, 
the wuss for wear, and Habersham or no Habersham I 
didn’t know as I ever see him before. And says he : 
‘Miss Loftus, I reckon ye don’t remember Malcolm 
Griffith ? ’ Well, I tell ye Penthesilea, I felt like I had 
been shoved along the railroad of time pretty sharp, for 
this was a middle-aged man and mo’ talkin’ to me, and 
the last time ever I see Malcolm Griffith, he hadn’t naire 
a gray hair, only a bloomin’ red, and instead of a beard, 
mo’ freckles than a turkey-aigg. 

“And it was precious little of Habersham he could 
talk ; most he had to tell was about you and the Yankee 
Colonel ; for it was back yonder in November soon 
after ye done it. Well, I was astonished. I had forgot 
all about my sun-bonnet which I had put it on to kiver 
my head from the wind when I opened the door, but it 
come jest as natural to snatch it off and hooray as if I 
was a boy — but it didn’t agree with my back-bone. 


128 PENNY LANCANSER, FARMER. 

I was proud of your sperrit, I tell ye, Penthesilea, and I 
shook hands the second time with Malcolm Griffith, 
which he didn’t seem to like it Land’s sake ! I had to 
tell I didn’t care a feather ’bout the Yankee — let the 
Confeds catch him and welcome if they can ; it was the 
sperrit of a Lancaster lifted me plum’ off n my feet 

“ But if ye believe me, that man wasn’t satisfied, and 
he said that as I was kin of yourn, he hoped I would 
take ye in charge. I asked him if the Gineral of the 
Confederate Army was scared ye’d do it again, and he 
gimme a look as black as thunder. 

But it would take mo’n that to scare me, and seein’ 
he mought be hongry, I got up and rustled around and 
found him somethin’ to eat ; but I tell ye, Penthesilea, 
the loss o’ that Yankee must a weighed on him, heavy, 
for he didn’t eat nothin’ to speak of ; so I went for some 
apple-brandy to fix him a toddy, and when I came 
again, Penthesilea, if ye’ll believe me, he was ablowin’ 
of his nose, and a wipin’ of his eyes — right thar , in that 
cheer, where ye be a settin’ now the man was a cryin 
for spite. I never said nothin’, I was that awed ! ’’ 

Penthesilea rose hastily and changed her seat. 

“What’s the matter? Ain’t ye comfortable thar?” 
said Miss Loftus. 

“ No,” said Penny, “I am not.” 

Miss Loftus eyed her with shrewd scrutiny. “Well ! 
well ! ” she said. “ Dr. Griffith ain’t a beauty sure 
and certain ; but he comes o’ good stock ; I knew ’em 
all in Habersham ; and he’s a squar friend o’ yourn, 
Penthesilea Lancaster — better him than Luke Rosser, 
any day.” 

“ Don’t ! don’t ! ” gasped Penny. 

“Ye ain’t a-pinin’ for that good-for-n aught, as they 
tell me ? ” queried Miss Loftus, anxiously. 

Penny shook her head. 

“And ye ain’t ashamed of saving the Yankee ? Ye 
needn’t be, as I can see. ” 

“No,” said Penny. 

“Well, then, child, don’t ye fret; the Lord accepts 
the deed. I’d a been everlastingly ashamed o’ ye my- 
self, if ye’d a turned your back on a old friend because 
of the coat he wears. I’d a gone after ye sooner, but 
fust I heard ye war down with the fever find couldn’t 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER, 


129 

be fetched, and then the rheumatiz and the weather 
blocked me a while ; but I got ye at last, and here ye 
air goin’ to stay. ” 

Miss Loftus was not mistaken as to the benefit of 
mountain air in Penny’s case. Day by day the invalid 
grew stronger, and with returning health, her conscience 
ceased to hold her responsible for Luke Rosser’s death. 

In the spring of that year the war was declared at an 
end ; the slaves were free. 

“Well, I ain’t s’prised,” said Miss Loftus. “I always 
expected they’d play the mischief with property, a-shoot- 
in’ at each other in different colored coats, when they’d 
been wiser to stay at home. But this I tell ye, Penthe- 
silea, no free niggers for me. There air mine what I’ve 
fed all these years, a-settin’ in a row in the sunshine, 
eleven o’clock in the day, just astonished. They’re 
afraid to go to work because they don’t belong to me no 
mo ; but they'll get hongry just the same, which I won’t 
feed ’em, and that’s flat ! ” 

And Miss Loftus, armed with the dinner-bell, walked 
out into her back-yard, where her half-a-dozen whilom 
slaves sat “in a rustic row,” not chatting, but blankly 
staring. They had been told to go to work, and they 
had essayed to obey ; but even the long habit of obedi- 
ence failed them when they found themselves confronted 
with the overwhelming fact that they were their own 
masters. They were not insubordinate, they were 
simply stupefied. 

A little patience, a little persuasion might have re- 
stored them to reason, for Miss Loftus, though rigid, 
had always been just and considerate, and, in a man- 
ner, her slaves were attached to her ; but she had ruled 
them absolutely many years, and she could not sum- 
mon the patience to bear with this unexampled apathy, 
neither could she stoop to persuade where she had been 
accustomed to command. 

She stepped out upon the little back porch, and rang 
the dinner-bell ; it was a big and loud- toned bell, and 
she held it in both hands and rang it vigorously, and as 
she rang she shouted : 

“ Freedom ! Freedom ! Freedom ! ” 

The effect was magical. The negroes rose as one 
man and fled. They lingered a moment, indeed, to 

9 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


130 

gather their few portable belongings together, and then 
they ran down the mountain-side and wandered into 
the neighboring town, bewildered, uncertain, without 
assured shelter, without definite aims, utterly unfit to 
cope with the exigencies of their new condition ; and 
the little farm on the mountain-side knew them no more 
forever. 

Miss Loftus had persuaded herself that she could do 
well enough without them ; but she could not. She 
was too old to accommodate herself to new methods, 
and too jealous of her rights as mistress of her own 
place to listen to any suggestions from Miss Penny. 
Three years dragged on in discomfort and disappoint- 
ment ; the once tidy little place went to rack, and then 
Miss Loftus said she would live there no more. She had 
grown very feeble, and she found the “ mounting” too 
hard for her ; and fancying that life would be easier in 
a town, she set her heart upon going to Atlanta. 

Poor Penny sighed over the necessity of giving up 
the country life she loved ; but she had no alternative. 
So she packed her cousin’s possessions, and went 
with her down to Atlanta, where within a year Miss 
Loftus died, and Penny, to her surprise, found herself 
.n command of the means to gratify the long-delayed 
wish of her heart, — to possess a farm of her own. 

For Miss Loftus had bequeathed to Penny not only the 
gold she had hoarded, but two small lots in Atlanta, 
besides the little farm on the mountain. By the sale of 
these, Miss Penny realized a sum that she deemed would 
justify her in the purchase of land more suitably situated 
than the little farm on the mountain-side. She could 
make the first payment and trust to her own good man- 
agement and industry to meet all subsequent obligations. 

But Miss Penny had learned prudence in matters of 
business, and she meant to take no irretrievable step 
through the inveterate greed of her native instincts ; 
therefore, she allowed herself ample time to make a 
judicious selection, for Miss Penny was now thirty-five, 
and she meant to settle for life. She was alone in the 
world, with no one’s interests to consult but her own. 
Her sisters had forgotten her, and she knew not where 
to find them, even had she not been too proud to remind 
them of her existence. As for her Uncle Joe, she hacf 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . l?)l 

given him up long ago as lost to her forever beyond the 
Rocky Mountains ; and Morrison Kenric, she had 
brought herself to believe, was sleeping in some un- 
known grave, since, for all that kissing of hands on the 
muddy roadside, under the murky dawn, no message 
had come to his deliverer. Or was he happy in his 
own home again, with his young son, and forgetful of 
her ? If he could forget, it was the same as though he 
were dead ; and she resolutely put this early friend 
from her thoughts, and turned all her energies of mind 
and body to the purchase of her farm. 

She sought her Arcadia in the hill-country of Northern 
Georgia, for she clung to her native state, though she 
left the pine-forests and the wire-grass regions far be- 
hind her. As it was her object to make small crops 
remunerative, she desired to settle within reach of some 
large town where she could readily dispose of her pro- 
duce, and whence she could draw such supplies as were 
not to be raised at home ; but the place she bought at 
last, fell very far short of her views. Instead of being two 
or three miles from a large town, it was half a mile from 
a very small town, which, however, possessing an 
exceptionally fine climate, already bade fare to become 
a health resort for Northerners in winter, and for 
Southerners from the coast in summer, so that Miss 
Penny foresaw a market for her small crops. When 
she made her first payment on the neglected little place 
of forty acres, with a dilapidated dwelling-house and 
broken down fences, everybody said she had gotten a 
bargain ; but she knew that it would cost many a 
dollar to bring her place to the perfection she sighed 
for. Still, she was content ; she owned a farm at last ; 
to work it, to bring it to perfection, was all the joy in 
life that she asked — so she fancied. There was a 
capacious cellar, and Miss Penny had a great respect 
for a cellar. That cellar, with three noble cherry-trees 
at the side of the house, and some gnarled apple-trees 
scattered over a lovely slope at the back, and protected 
against the northern blasts by a range of well-wooded 
hills, carried the day with Miss Penny Lancaster. 

It was late in August when she took possession. The 
hardships and inconveniences she was called upon to 
endure in this beginning, were to the full as great as 


32 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


she had expected ; but she had made up her mind to hard- 
ships, and would not be discouraged, though the neigh- 
bors looked coldly, not to say rebukingly upon her 
“new methods, ” and vaticinated in their vernacular: 

“Hit ain’t in natur, fur women-critturs ter wrastle 
with a farm, and come off conquerors, like men-folks. ” 

Miss Penny did not accept this doctrine, but she rec- 
ognized the value of a man about a farm, and by dint of 
diligent inquiry she discovered a robust ‘native,’ who 
had been sold out for taxes, and like Micawber, was 
waiting for something to turn up. Miss Penny, like 
her cousin, Miss Loftus, had no faith in free negroes ; 
an industrious, able-bodied white man, she argued, 
could do the work of her small farm, with occasional 
assistance. “Joyce was a mighty good fellow,” the 
farmers of the neighborhood testified; “sober and 
stiddy, and knowed craps and critturs amazin’, and had 
a good onderstandin’ of land ; but some-how-er-nother, 
he hadn't never seemed ter have no manigemint” 

As Miss Penny considered herself competent to the 
management of her farm, she was content with this rec- 
ommendation of Joyce, whom she forthwith engaged 
for the ensuing year. His wife consented to do the 
cooking, washing and scrubbing ; and as they had no 
children, Miss Penny considered herself fortunate in 
securing their services. 

But now began her warfare. This pair were as 
wedded to their old notions, as their employer was to 
her new methods, and harder to manage than unbroken 
mules. The trials and vexations that Miss Penny was 
called upon to endure through this thriftless couple were 
enough to make her repent her bucolic aspirations in 
sackcloth and ashes, had repentance been possible to 
a woman so determined. It was only by dint of fierce 
insistance that Joyce and his wife, who were both of 
them disposed to ‘ ‘ allow thar warn’t no hurry, ” moved 
in immediately, and set to work after a fashion of their 
own that Miss Penny was fain to be content with, see- 
ing she could do no better. 

Joyce was a tall, sinewy, heavy-jointed man, with a 
leathery skin, and long, dull brown hair. He had hard 
gray eyes, and he talked loud, as if the people about 
him were all deaf. His wife was a faded, woe-begone, 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


*33 

untidy creature, with lustreless black eyes, and a quan- 
tity of jet black hair, the only sign of vigor about her. 
She had a narrow, flat chest, round shoulders, and a 
slouching gait, and she spoke in the same loud tones 
that her husband used, accentuated by an exasperating 
whine. Immediately upon her arrival, she announced 
that she had a misery in her side, and sat down upon 
the door-step to swallow a dose of something that she 
shook out ftf a bottle into an iron spoon, both of which 
she had taken from the pocket of her faded calico, after 
a jerky search amid its scanty folds. 

These Joyces brought a great amount of luggage, for 
the moving of which Miss Penny had to pay, as Mr. 
J oyce had no money. The ancient and ricketty ‘ ‘ chist, ” 
the rough-hide trunk, the unsightly bedding, the spin- 
ning-wheel, a few cooking utensils, and an array of soap- 
gourds were promptly bestowed in the apartment 
assigned to this couple, who at once proceeded to make 
themselves entirely at home : but it required some time 
to open Miss Penny's eyes to the fact that it was the 
Joyces and not herself, who had taken possession, so 
eager and busy she was about her improvements. 

There was not only the farm to be put in order, but 
the house had to be made habitable, and Miss Penny 
discovered, while the scrubbing was in progress, that 
she must have a well dug. There was a spring of ex- 
cellent water, clear as crystal, cold as ice, but it was at 
such a distance that the water had to be hauled in bar- 
rels ; therefore, Miss Penny lost no time in marking out 
a spot convenient to her kitchen and wash-house, con- 
venient also to her contemplated dairy. 

It would seem that it ought to be a mere matter of 
decision for a woman to have a well dug upon her own 
premises just where she might wish to have it, when 
she held the money in her hand to pay for it, but Miss 
Penny was in the power of the Joyces, though she 
knew it not. Mr. Joyce had his own orthodox opinion 
on the subject of well-digging, and sharing as he did 
the views of the neighborhood regarding the “woman- 
farmer," he would have considered it derogatory to his 
“ jedgmint "to “ give in" to Miss Lancasters inexpe- 
rience. He had watched her askance as she marked off 
the spot for the well, and Miss Penny fancied that he 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


*34 

was offended because she had not asked his opinion. 
But no ; Joyce had too great a contempt for Miss 
Penny’s ignorance and lack of experience to take offense, 
knowing very well that whether or not she asked his 
advice, she would have to be guided by it, since the 
power was in his own hands. When Miss Penny asked 
him to find her a well-digger, he replied with an alac- 
rity that assured her : 

“Thar ain’t ne’er a better nowhar than my wife’s 
second cousin, Sam’l Hexin, what lives acrost Snaky 
Bottom, three mile.” 

Miss Penny agreed readily to his suggestion that he 
should take the horse — her latest purchase — and go at 
once to engage Hexin’s services. Her estimation of 
her man of all work rose several degrees, upon finding 
him so prompt to forward her wishes : she did not 
overhear the conversation between Joyce and his wife. 

“Thar ain’t no well-digger nowhar, as /knows on, 
what’ll dig thouten he’s sho’ of water,” remarked Mrs. 
Joyce, as she stood watching her husband’s preparations 
for departure. 

“Never you mind, Almirey ; she aint agoin’ to git 
no well dug whar thar ain’t no water found, not ef I 
know it replied Joyce soothingly. “It’s sheer fool- 
hardiness, and waste o’ means, goin’ agin natur’ ; and 
she ought bless her luck she’s got me to guide the 
general plough of this consarn. ” 

And then he mounted the horse and went out at the 
broken gate and up the road, his lazy wife lolling against 
the door-post and watching him until he was lost to view 
over the hill. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

FIRST STEPS. 

Joyce had departed immediately after breakfast, but 
he did not return until sundown, to announce that he 
had found Samuel Hexin at home and “willin’ to the 
job.” 

Miss Penny wished to know what had detained him 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


135 

So long, but she was restrained from pressing the ques- 
tion by Mrs. Joyce’s ominous grumble that ‘‘hit was a 
pretty come off ef a man, free, white, and twenty-one 
had to account to a woman, not his wife, nuther, for his 
cornin’ and goin’. ” 

However the secret of Joyce’s prolonged absence was 
disclosed the next morning when Samuel Hexin came. 

Samuel was a short, thick-set, mouldy-looking man 
of middle age, with a wheezing voice, and an expression 
of stolid obstinacy that might well alarm Miss Penny 
for the execution of her wishes. 

“ How-d’ye, Cousin Mirey ? ” he wheezed, stretching 
out a hard and grimy hand for Mrs. Joyce’s friendly 
grasp. “ Been well ? ” 

“ ’Bout as usual,” Mrs. Joyce responded, in doleful 
accents. “ I’m allermost allers po’ly. How’s Cousin 
’Liza ? ” 

“Well, she’s gittin’ on, thank the Lord ! ” said Hexin, 
pushing back his hat, and rubbing his forehead. “ She’s 
got a new doctorment as does her a power o’ good.” 

“Is it pills ? ” Mrs. Joyce asked, with an animation no 
one would have supposed her capable of. 

“ Well, n — o,” said Hexin, slowly. “ Hit’s a mixtur ; 
I disremember the name.” 

“ Law, sakes ! And I got a misery o’ my insides as 
is that bad ! ” Mrs. Joyce exclaimed, despondently. 
“ Joyce will jest have to go back and fetch me the name 
o’ that mixture, or I sha n't rest in peace. I’ve tried 
nigh on to about everythin! , and that mixture I’m boun’ 
to have. Ef hit’s holped Cousin ’Liza it ought to holp 
me. ” 

Miss Penny, impatient to see her work going on, in- 
terrupted this conversation. “Good morning, Mr. 
Hexin,” she said briskly. “I sent for you to dig me 
a well.” 

“Mornin’,” wheezed Hexin, slowly, with a barely 
perceptible nod, not touching his hat. “We can’t dig 
ontel the ground is spotted.” 

“Yes, I’ve marked out the spot just there, handy to 
the kitchen door,” said Miss Penny, with quick, though 
mistaken conviction of his meaning. 

The well-digger barely deigned a glance in the direc- 
tion she pointed, and said, turning to Joyce : 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


136 

“ I ’lowed Mem’ry Waits would meet me here. Did 
you find him to Robinson’s, Joyce ? ” 

“No,” said Joyce. “ I had to go on to Sandy Crook’s 
nine mile further, that’s how it come I didn’t git back to 
tell you. But he’ll be here. ” 

Then Miss Penny knew why Joyce had not returned 
until sundown ; he had been in search of Memory 
Waits ; but who and what Memory Waits was, she had 
yet to learn. 

“Your assistant, I suppose?” said she, struggling 
against her annoyance. 

“ One o’ my boys kin give me all the ’sistin’ I need,” 
said Hexin, in his slow wheezing voice. “ Thar ain’t 
no hurry. I jest come to-day to look arter the job. Me 
and my boy kin set in ter-morrer, arter the water’s 
spotted. ” 

“Yes, thar ain’t no hurry,” said Joyce, as if the well 
to be dug was for his benefit. 

“Sartin sure!” chimed in his unkempt better-half, 
who had taken her seat upon the door-step, and vms 
interesting herself in the well-digger’s job, to the utter 
oblivion of her own imperative duties. She added the 
information, presumably for Miss Penny’s benefit, that 
Memory Waits was the best water-spotter in all North 
Georgia, and that Reuben Joyce knew what he was 
about when he went so far to get him. 

A light began to break upon Miss Penny’s mind. 
“Oh,” said she, “you mean he is to use a divining 
rod ? ” 

The well-digger nodded. 

Now, Miss Penny was born and reared among people 
who believed in the divining-rod, but she had never 
seen it put to the test, and having no faith in it herself, 
she was unwilling to waste time in the experiment. 
“ But I mean to have my well dug Jus/ there,” said she, 
with significant emphasis, and pointing again to the 
spot she had marked out. 

“That’ll have to be as Mem’ry Waits finds,” returned 
Hexin, inexorably, and not troubling himself to look 
where she pointed. “You don’t want no well whar 
thar ain’t no water. It’s aginst natur’ to dig fur it, 
random-like, and what’s aginst natur’, is aginst luck.” 

“ In course it is ! ” echoed Mr. and Mrs. Joyce. 


penny Lancaster , farmer. i 3 y 

“Yander comes Mem’ry, now,” continued Hexin, 
Shading his eyes with his rough hands, as he turned 
towards the road. “ He'll soon give us the exac' spot. 
He's a quick one, Mem’ry is ! ” 

Miss Penny, internally raging, looked in the direction 
of the well-digger's gaze, and beheld a small, wiry man 
clad in blue homespun, spring over the fence at abound, 
and come running towards the house. Her first angry 
impulse was to turn away and declare that she would 
have nothing to do with either the well-digger or the 
“water-spotter”; but upon an instant's reflection, she 
prudently restrained her wrath. 

The last comer’s appearance was in his favor. He 
was a slight, dark, very young man, with an elfish but 
pleasing countenance, and a respectful manner. He 
took off his hat, as he greeted Miss Penny, and stood 
bare-headed, his long dark locks blown by the wind. 

“ I am sorry you have had the trouble to come,” said 
Miss Penny, relaxing her frown a little ; and glancing 
at the freshly cut forked stick he held lightly in his 
left hand, she added, “ I don’t believe in that, you 
know. ” 

“ ‘ Many people doesn't,” said the man, pleasantly ; 
“but seem’ is believin’.” 

“That's no matter,” returned Miss Penny, crisply. 
“ I must have my well where I want it, or I may as well 
not have it at all. I am willing to pay for it, but I 
must have it where I want it. ” 

The diviner's countenance became instantly grave. 
“The ordering of the water-courses,” said he, with a 
devout glance upward, “is known only to Him, and 
revealed according to His pleasure.” 

The solemnity with which these words were uttered 
quieted, if it did not appease Miss Penny's vexation. 
She was silent. 

“And you see,” explained Hexin, “Hit’s me what 
gits the job, and hit’s me what's answerable fur his pay.” 

“And thats fair ! ” Joyce declared. 

This explanation did not impose upon Miss Penny, 
however ; she knew that ultimately the diviner's fee 
must come out of her pocket, and she determined 
that she would not pay it unless water was found con- 
venient. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


I3 8 

“You see, ma’am/’ said the diviner, with a propitiate 
ing smile, “ we kin seek within your limits, and if it’s 
thar, it will be indicated ; and if it ain’t, why, ma’am, 
thar’s no' use to dig, onlest you want a dry well.” 

At this, everyone laughed except Miss Penny. Mrs. 
Joyce with a harsh cackle, Hexin with a wheezy chuckle, 
and Joyce with a loud, lingering “haw ! haw ! ” 

Yet, in spite of her annoyance, Miss Penny was inter- 
ested in the proceedings. 

The diviner fixed his hat upon his head, and grasping 
firmly in each hand a branch of the forked stick, with 
the straight end pointing upward, began walking slowly 
back and forth, within a space prescribed by Miss Penny 
herself. 

“ Ef the water ain’t thar,” remarked Hexin, paren- 
thetically, “hit ain’t no use, nohow ; it’ll have to be 
sarched for elsewhar.” 

The diviner did not speak ; his lips were compressed, 
his face wore an intent expression ; the veins on the 
back of his hand became swollen by the rigidity of his 
grasp, and the rod remained inflexibly upright 

Miss Penny, clearly perceiving that she was in the 
power of a faction, began to feel her heart sink. She 
kept her eyes fixed upon the diviner, who, sensible, 
perhaps, of some subtle influence in her gaze, suddenly 
glanced up and met her anxious look. As he did so, 
the rod in his hand wavered, turned, twisted, and ac- 
tually split as the end pointed down between his 
feet. 

He was standing a trifling distance from the spot Miss 
Penny had marked, and she sprang up, determined not 
to yield without a struggle ; but Hexin allowed her no 
time to speak : 

“How deep, Mem’ry? How deep? - ’ he wheezed, 
excitedly. 

The diviner, without replying, began slowly walking 
backward, counting as he went. When he had measured 
fifty-two paces, the rod suddenly reversed with such 
violence that it had nearly struck him in the face. He 
looked up at Miss Penny again, as he threw back his 
head, and said : 

“ Seein’ is believin’.” 

“ Hit’s the gift o’ the Lord ! ” Mrs. Joyce declared, 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


39 


loudly. “ Mem’ry ain’t mo n nineteen, but he’s got the 
gift, sure ! ” 

But Miss Penny was not ready to acknowlege herself 
convinced. 

“Of course I expected to dig deep,” said she, “ on 
this rising ground ; and if water is within fifty-two feet 
on that spot, it can be found anywhere within a reason- 
able circuit. I don’t want any well dug there. I want 
it here ! ” 

But speak as positively as she might, her four oppos- 
ers were not to be induced to go “agin natur’ ; ” they 
shook their heads in solemn, obstinate denial. 

“I mought” said Hexin, condescendingly, “I monght 
git my consent to dig and trust to luck, in case whar 
nobody could be found with the gift to trace water ; but 
so long’s my head’s hot, I ain’t a gwine to be sich a 
blazin’ fool as to go agin luck by diggin’ in one place, 
when the water’s been spotted in another.” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t stand no sich resk,” Joyce declared, 
with an air of proprietorship. “ Tain’t no manner sense 
to mark out a well thouten findin’ the water fust , Miss 
Lankster. ” 

“Nothin’ but i’norance would undertake it,” Mrs. 
Joyce remarked, loftily. 

And by these two assertions Miss Penny might have 
understood that her hirelings had discussed her deficien- 
cies, and had taken her under supervision ; but she was 
not giving heed at that moment, she was debating with 
herself whether she should submit to dictation or 
struggle for the victory. The distance between the 
spot chosen by herself and that indicated by Memory 
Waits’ rod, was not so great as to involve any material 
sacrifice of convenience, should she consent to have 
her well according to his dictum, rather than her own ; 
but recognizing the principle involved, Miss Penny was 
loth to yield her point. 

“Ef ye ain’t goin’ to dig ‘cordin’ to the water, Miss 
Lankster,” wheezed Hexin, impatient at her silence, 
“hit ain’t no use talkin’ ’about hit no mo’.” 

This was reducing the question to its exact limitations 
as Miss Penny was quick to perceive, and with her ac- 
customed promptness of decision, she consented that 


I4 Q PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

the well should be dug according to Memory Waits’s 
indication. 

Hexin had already stuck a stake in the spdt where the 
diviner's rod had pointed, and the alacrity with which 
he proceeded to mark off the space for the well, consoled 
Miss Penny, in some measure for having to yield her 
preference ; and for her more complete consolation, in 
the course of a week or ten days, the well was completed, 
and a good supply of good water secured. 

Then Miss Penny, having first patched her gates and 
fences as best she could, at the time, built herself a 
barn ; for though it might long go empty, she could not 
be content without this indispensable feature of a thrifty 
farm. It was a big barn that promised to be perfection 
some day; but incomplete and unpainted though it 
stood, it was a great satisfaction to its owner, and it had 
this advantage over the well, it was built exactly where 
she wanted it, with its door to the south. 

When Miss Penny had built her barn, and had so far 
stocked her farm as was indispensable to the making of 
a crop, she found that she must content herself without 
furniture. She slept upon a cot, sat upon her trunk, and 
for a table made use of a barrel with two boards bat- 
tered together and laid across the top : but she was not 
living in the present, and she felt no hardship. She had 
a good share of ingenuity, and some taste for decora- 
tion, which might have enabled her to relieve the bar- 
renness of her habitation ; but she had no time to exert 
these talents, for besides the fact that all her energies 
were directed to her out-door work, she had also to sup- 
plement the incapacity of her woman in the kitchen, 
who knew no more about cookery than Miss Penny her- 
self did; but Mrs. Joyce’s ignorance differed from Miss 
Penny’s in that she was blissfully unconscious of it, and 
totally incapable of learning anything from failure, which 
was never the case with Miss Penny Lancaster. Mrs. 
Joyce far from resenting interference, received every 
suggestion with a calm indifference, and the remark : 

“Well, for sure, your way ain’t my way; but ef it 
suits you—’ 

Yet she continued to do her own way. 

Her husband equally bent upon having his way in the 
fields, was less complaisant of speech, “ You jest leave 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. I4I 

7ne to plant them turnups and cabbages, Miss Lanks- 
ter,” he would say; “and you and Almirey mind the 
house. I’ll put in a patch of wheat, and you’ll see 
everything a workin’ straight. Don’t you take no con- 
sarn about the plough.” 

But Miss Penny insisted also upon a field of clover; 
her plan being, after a while, to make cheese in winter, 
and to sell milk, butter and curds, in summer, to the 
Briarville Hotel which already had a fair show of health- 
seekers all the year round. Miss Penny did not foresee 
that she would be to a great extent, the making of that 
hotel, but she was fain to hope that the Briarville Hotel 
might be the making of her. 

Joyce planted the clover under protest “I ain’t 
never had no use,” he grumbled to Almirey, “fur no 
woman follerin’ up my plough. And as to clover, any 
caow kin git pickin’s around, thouten that waste o’ time 
and strength.” 

“And it’s a flyin’ in the face o’ Providence to be 
plantin’ for the future so confident ,” commented the 
doleful Almirey. 

But Joyce had at least this merit, he was not lazy, and 
if the work of the farm was not always done according 
to Miss Penny’s views, at least there was progress made 
as the months wore on. 

Miss Penny’s plan was to redeem the exhausted land 
by planting peas chiefly the first year, when the spring 
came around, with just so much corn as would save 
buying it; but Mr. Joyce planted cotton. Yet, as he 
knew this was in direct opposition to his employer’s 
wishes, he kept his own counsel, and Miss Penny was 
none the wiser until the seed came up. For at that time 
she had her heart set upon a crop of vegetables whereby 
she hoped to defray part of the expenses of the coming 
year. 

At the side of the house and beyond the cherry-trees, 
was a large garden in fairly good condition, but it was 
almost impossible to induce her one farm-hand to pay 
any attention to this branch of the business. He had 
hired to do farming, and not gardening, which he con- 
sidered work for “ women-critturs; ” and he could not 
see, he could not be made to see, anything but waste of 
time and space in planting such vegetables as he had 


4.2 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


never eaten. When Miss Penny recited the long list 
she meant to plant, he did not openly say her nay, 
but he was none the less determined to countenance no 
such folly ; and Miss Penny dared not quarrel with him. 
Not that she was afraid of any man ; but in that part of 
the country it was not easy to command labor. There 
were plenty of farmers’ sons, indeed, to whom Miss 
Penny’s wages would not have come amiss, but they 
too often preferred to leave undone at home, work they 
should have done, anxious rather to increase their al- 
ready respectable knowledge of wood-craft by hunting 
‘ ‘ varmints ” that infested the higher slopes. Miss Penny 
herself could wield a hoe to very good purpose, but her 
unaided strength was not equal to the undertaking of 
such a garden as she counted upon. 

However, by dint of sore insistence, Mr. Joyce was 
induced to plough the ground, grumbling the while that 
he had too much work to do, to be throwing away his 
time on “gyarden foolishness.” “Craps is craps ,” he 
maintained, to his sympathizing and acquiescent Almi- 
rey ; “and Miss Lankster ’ll find that out to reck’nin’, 
ef she don’t quit her onprincipled book-farmin’.” 

“ Sartain !” responded Almirey. “It’s you what is 
runnin’ the business, and Miss Lankster ought to mind 
her business by not interferin’. ” 

Satisfied that he had done more than should have 
been required of him, Joyce, when he had ploughed the 
garden, left Miss Penny to her own devices in getting it 
planted ; he was entirely willing to consider the garden 
“ hern,” but the “crap ” was “hisn,” and he knew what 
he was about. 

In her despair, Miss Penny appealed to Mrs. Joyce. 

Mrs. Joyce suffered from chronic despondency; there 
were times when she felt free to declare that “ thar 
warn’t no use in nothin’,” yet she could never be per- 
suaded of the uselessness of having such a train to her 
calico skirts that every snag in her pathway took out a 
sample, until the edge was an unsightly fringe. She no 
more approved of the garden thhn did her husband, but 
she allowed herself to be persuaded to lend most unwill- 
ing and ineffectual aid, striking some reckless blows 
that annihilated more precious plants than noxious 
weeds, according herself frequent resting-spells, when 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


*43 

she would lean contemplatively on her hoe-handle, star- 
ing at nothing, unless Miss Penny passed within ear- 
shot, when she would grumble out the opinion that 
“hit warn’t no use, nohow; folks about hyar didn’t 
never bother to wrastle with weeds in gyarden patches ; 
thar was allers mo'n enough to do, keepin’ craps outen 
the grass.” 

Miss Penny, however, was not to be converted from 
the error of her ways by any amount of this indirect 
preaching ; she had not slept upon a cot, sat upon her 
trunk, and eaten from a table improvised of a barrel 
and boards, to give up the struggle at the word of this 
lazy pessimist. She had taken hoe in hand with a will, 
and what her hand found to do, she did with her might, 
discovering thereby, to her astonishment and dismay, 
that the variety of weeds is greater, and their vitality 
more indestructible than it is possible to appreciate, 
without actual, experimental contact Miss Penny, it 
may be remarked, by the way, struggled with the in- 
veterate “ pusley ” three years before she learned its 
value in feeding swine. In the garden she spared her- 
self no toil, trusting to the forlorn hope that by the time 
the work should become too heavy for her, some lad 
more industriously disposed than his fellows, might be 
found to ‘ * carry ” the garden and peddle the vegeta- 
bles. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

DISCOURAGEMENT. 

Betrayed by Joyce’s scorn of gardening into the delu- 
sion that the corn and peas upon which she relied for 
store the coming winter, would receive due attention 
from him, Miss Penny took comparatively little thought 
about the crop of the farm proper, and it was late in 
April before it occurred to her to inspect her fields 
So, one morning, when she tied on her big hat, and 
pulled on her heavy gloves, instead of betaking herself 
at once to the garden, she walked across the slope 
dedicated to the apple-trees, and reached that portion of 
her territory properly called the fields. 


144 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


Before she came quite upon the furrows, she saw, 
with a thrill of intense satisfaction, a line of tender green 
tracing their course ; but a closer examination proved 
this not to be the green of corn or peas. Indeed — Miss 
Penny should have known that corn and peas at this 
time of the year ought to be making a greater show, 
but this was the first year of her planting, and in the 
multitude of her anxieties, many facts escaped her. 

Miss Penny stooped down twice, and glanced un- 
easily up one furrow and down another before she 
could accept the testimony of her eyes. Then she 
bethought herself that she had heard Joyce’s wife say to 
her spouse that she must have some cotton for her win- 
ter spinning, “ seein’ that sto’ boughten stockings, and 
socks warn’t no good.” He was to be pardoned, Miss 
Penny thought, if he had dedicated a little strip in the 
field to Almirey’s petition, for home-made hosiery. 
But the farther Miss Penny walked, the more and the 
more were the rows of cotton ; in fact, cotton covered 
all the land, even to the farthest limit of her fields, where 
Mr. Joyce stood, hoe in hand, addressing himself to the 
work of “bunching.” 

“Mr. Joyce,” said Miss Penny, with restrained wrath, 
“what is this coming up in my furrows ? ” 

Joyce’s sallow, sun-burned face expanded in a broad 
grin. “Well now, Miss Lankster,” he drawled, “you 
set yourself up fur a farmer and dunno cotton when 
you see it ! ” 

“I do know cotton when I see it!” Miss Penny 
retorted, curtly. “But I am slow to believe my own 
eyes, for I expressly ordered you to put in a different 
crop. Where is that sack of peas I gave you to plant ?” 

Joyce’s features took on an expression half-sullen, 
half-defiant, as he replied : 

“Them peas was fairly got red of, you kin make 
shore, Miss Lankster. Almirey and me allowed thet 
thar was jest about ten times as much as thar was any 
sense in plantin’. I reckin I know what I’m ’bout 
when I undertake to do farming, and ef you must know, 
I passelled them peas out in small lots and made a even 
swop with defferent neighbors fur cotton-seed. Ef hit 
warn’t fur me , Miss Lankster, I tell ye, now , ef hit 
warn’t fur me, you’d be the redicule of the neighbor- 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


1-5 

hood. I done mo’ farmin’ than ever you’ll larn outen 
books, and thar ain’t no sense in chunkin’ away land 
jes to—” 

“How much have you planted in cotton?” Miss 
Penny interrupted, shortly. 

“Well — jest about as much as by right reason could 
be spared from corn,” Mr. Joyce replied, with obtru- 
sive self-gratulation. “A matter of ten acres, I reckon. 
That’ll give you two acres in corn.” 

“Mr. Joyce,” said Miss Penny, exasperated, “where 
am I to get corn this winter, to feed my stock ? ” 

“A caow, and a calf, and a hawse, and a sow and 
pigs,” said Joyce, composedly; “you kin count on 
about twenty-five bushels ; and thar’s allers corn to be 
bought. ” 

“And I am to live on a farm of my own and buy 
corn /” cried Miss Penny with scorn. 

“Well — now, Miss Lankster,” said Joyce, persua- 
sively, “ don’t let’s you and me git riled with one 
’nother. /got repitation to lose; you ain’t got none, 
so to speak, as a farmer. Cotton’s cotton ; thar ain’t 
no question ’bout that, and hit’ll fetch hit’s price.” 

“Oh, I dare say; ” Miss Penny assented, ironically. 

“Shore and sartain ; ” Joyce insisted, with consola- 
tory emphasis. “I allow to make a quarter bale to 
the acre. ” 

“ About two bales and a half,” said Miss Penny, who 
was a lightning calculator, “to be hauled and ginned ; 
and packed and shipped, to say nothing of picking 
out.” 

“Well, to be shore,” drawled Joyce, with mingled 
condescension and impatience, inexpressibly exasperat- 
ing to the mistress of the soil, “you can’t count of 
havin’ the yield o’ the yeth thouten some outlay. As to 
this cotton, ef I make the crap, I reckin I kin manage.” 
And he addressed himself again to his hoe, with an air 
of finality. 

Miss Penny, if she could have hoped for obedience, 
would have ordered every sprout of cotton ploughed 
up, instanter ; but Joyce had her at his mercy, and she 
dared not trust herself to utter another word, or to stay 
a moment longer, lest she might do or say something 
rash. 


I4 6 PENNY LANCASTER, EARMER. 

Joyce chuckled to nimself as he looked after her re- 
treating figure, and before she was fairly out of sight, 
shouted to her : 

“Say; Miss Lankster ! Thar’s a good chance o’ 
peas sproutin’ up to the orchard corner ; ’bout an acre. 
You jest walk over thar and see fur yourself.” 

But Miss Penny deigned no reply ; neither djd she 
extend her walk in the direction named. She was in 
no mood to be soothed by a handful of peas ; she felt 
the necessity of working off her bottled wrath in order 
to think clearly. In the phraseology of the region 
where she had elected to live, she “pitched into” the 
garden and slaughtered the weeds with a fury that soon 
exhausted her strength without in any degree calming 
the turmoil of her thoughts. 

Perhaps it was a fortunate feature in the case that 
having made a year’s contract with Joyce and his wife, 
she had no alternative but to acquiesce in the execrated 
cotton-crop ; on the other hand, however, it was exas- 
perating to reflect that while she could not discharge 
him, he, having nothing to lose, might at any time 
break his contract. 

Miss Penny could have wept tears of rage at finding 
herself outgeneralled by this shiftless incarnation of 
obstinacy, whose cotton crops, . with all his boasted 
knowledge of farming, had not sufficed to save him 
from being sold out for taxes. She had chosen farm- 
ing through the irresistible impulse of her strong and 
ineradicable passion for the rural life. In her early 
youth she had desired a farm of her own merely for the 
gratification of her propensity to dig in the dirt ; but 
with the passing years she had read, and observed, and 
reflected much, so that she had come to cherish a 
modest ambition to teach some useful lessons regard- 
ing the conduct of small farms. Her views as to 
her recognized vocation were not limited to the mere 
heaping of riches upon riches by means of what Mr. 
Joyce called the “ yield o’ the yeth ” ; she meant, in- 
deed, to make her living by farming, and also to grow 
rich thereby, if so she might ; but what was to become 
of her hopes to teach small farmers the wisdom of hav- 
ing nothing to do with cotton, when she, the self-ap- 
pointed prophet of the millennium of mixed provision 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


147 

crops, was lending countenance, in her own despite, to 
the planting of cotton ? Miss Penny, notwithstanding 
her strong practical turn, was enough of an enthusiast to 
feel like sitting in sack-cloth and ashes. 

Metaphorically, she was sitting in sackcloth and ashes 
upon her own front steps, at sun set on that day of humil- 
iation and defeat. It was the darkest hour of all the thirty- 
six years of Miss Penny’s Pilgrimage. 

She had discovered before now, that there were many 
more things necessary to the making of a good farmer 
than had been dreamed of in her philosophy, but until 
this day she had never suspected that there might be 
difficulties she could not cope with and especially had 
she never dreamed that her most formidable difficulty 
would present itself in the shape of a man of ignorance 
and prejudice. 

So Miss Penny sat upon her piazza step, dejected and 
humiliated, while Joyce went whistling through his cotton 
crop. She had heard him say to Almirey when he came 
in at noon, that “ he rekined by the time Miss Langster 
was a few years older she’d give hit up that thar was a 
heap she didn’t know ef she was book-larnt ” 

Miss Penny had “given it up ” already. In the days 
when she was pining to be the possessor of acres of her 
own, she had been accustomed to take refuge from her 
weariness of hope long deferred in a vision of the Wonder 
thatshouldbe in the way of an ideal farm. This vision 
came to her now, unbidden, it came not to soothe, but 
to mock her. She had closed her eyes ; not because there 
was nothing beautiful in the sunset pageant illuminat- 
ing the hills around her, but because she could take no 
pleasure in the sunset, for the bareness of her own little 
domain which she had begun, all at once, to despair of 
ever converting into the thriving, beautiful domain of her 
hopes, and her imagination. 

And this despair had a deeper significance for Miss 
Penny than the mere negation of success in her chosen 
pursuit. Deep in her heart, she had, through all the 
years of her exile, clung to a purpose that lent its soften- 
ing shade to her character. Though she had left her 
home without farewell, she had never hardened into for- 
getfulness of her sisters, and she had cherished the secret 
hope of making her own home the scene of reunion be- 


j 4 8 PENJSTY LANCASTER, FARMER . 

tween herself and them. The thought that the failure of 
her farm might balk this hope of its fruition, was more 
than she could endure, and closing her eyes to keep 
back the sudden tears, she straightway saw a prolific ap- 
ple-orchard on its grassy slope, an orchard now in bloom 
and now in bearing, — for the seasons changed swiftly in 
Miss Penny’s vision. She saw her fields green with clover 
and with corn, with wheat, and oats, and rye. she saw 
the same fields yellow with ripened harvest, and count- 
less golden pumpkins ready to be housed in her goodly 
barn for the sleek cattle ; she beheld a well-ordered dairy, 
a poultry-yard crowded with fowls, a row of bee-hives 
against the garden fence, and on the other side of that 
fence long lines of currants and raspberries with all the 
good old-fashioned herbs, and every vegetable in its 
season ; and here and there a border or a plot of all such 
gay flowers as could delight sight or smell — recalling 
that well-remembered garden of the Cross-roads in the 
pine-barrens, where sunflowers and prince’s feather 
made glad her childish heart. 

The vision made Miss Penny groan in spirit. It had 
lost the power to spur her energies to renewed exertions; 
it could only fill her with an enervating despair, and she 
opened her eyes quickly, with the intuition that the 
sight of her little slip of yard in front, over-run by weeds 
and great clumps of Bouncing Bet, “ unprofitably gay,” 
ought to act as a tonic. She opened her eyes and saw, 
upon the nearest hill-top, over which the road led to 
Briarville, a man, walking towards her house. 

Miss Penny’s gaze fixed itself upon this man, not with 
any feeling of interest or curiosity, but in merest apathy. 
Presently she saw that the pedestrian carried a valise 
slung over his shoulder by means of a cane. 

The man came straight on with a swinging pace ; he 
was evidently a practiced walker, and he soon reached 
the gate that opened a few yards in front of Miss 
Penny’s door. To her annoyance, he stopped there, and 
resting his arms atop, looked wistfully over the grass- 
grown and weedy yard at Miss Penny sitting on the 
steps. 

Miss Penny sent him back a defiant glance. A man 
a-foot was, in the nature of things, a suspicious char- 
acter in a neighborhood where most people found some 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


149 

means of riding. But this man was tolerably well 
dressed, and he wore his plain, substantial, though 
rather thread-bare clothing with an air of respectability 
that rebuked suspicion. Nevertheless, despite the sug- 
gestion, intangible and fleeting, yet irresistible, of some- 
thing familiar in his smile, for aught Miss Penny knew, 
this man might be a villain. She waited for him to 
speak ; and presently he lifted his hat, showing his 
grizzled locks — for he was well past middle-age — and 
asked : 

“ Is this Miss Lancaster’s place? ” 

“Yes,” answered Miss Penny, ungraciously; “but I 
have no accommodations for travellers. ” She had de- 
termined when she bought her farm, that living upon 
the roadside should not subject her to the incursions of 
strangers and pilgrims. But this stranger and pilgrim 
was not to be so easily rebuffed ; he opened the gate 
and entered. 

Miss Penny rose, summoning all her dignity in for- 
bidding preparation of a request for a night’s lodging ; 
but she was totally unprepared for the man’s next 
words. 

“Why, Penthesilea ? ” he said, with a faint, sad 
smile, as he dropped his valise at her feet and held out 
his hands to her. “Don’t you know me, Penthesilea?” 

Miss Penny staggered back, clasping her head in her 
two hands, instead of taking his. Her face wore a 
startled and shocked rather than a pleased expression. 

“ I do believe — it is — Uncle Joe ? ” she gasped. 

Our estimate of people we know changes very mate- 
rially as we advance from seventeen to thirty-seven, and 
Miss Penny was not sure that she regarded her uncle 
Joe with the same unquestioning faith and admiration 
she had entertained for him in her childhood. She used 
to resent bitterly her step-mother’s sour accusation that 
no man tied to a fiddle never was worth his salt, but she 
was now distinctly conscious of a secret satisfaction in 
the gertainty that his valise could not possibly hold the 
companion of his idle hours. 

All this flashed through Miss Penny’s thoughts yet left 
her time to rally instantly, with a sense of shame at her 
disloyalty to one, who, whatever his shortcomings were, 
had been to her a friend in need. She took his outstretched 


150 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


hands, and gave him a kiss of welcome ; yet as she in- 
vited him in, she could not resist a sinking of heart, with 
certain vague forebodings — by which sensation she 
learned the encouraging fact that Mr. Joyce had not 
utterly crushed her. “E’en in our ashes live our 
wonted fires.” 

She ushered her uncle in, little dreaming of the mag- 
nitude of the demand he was about to make upon her 
gratitude and unselfishness. She knew that he would 
probably consider her house his home, of right, for the 
rest of his days, and that with the best intentions in the 
world, he would worry her with advice and interfer- 
ence : but Gentleman Joe had a tale to unfold. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A LEGACY. 

Gentleman Joe drew a long breath and rubbed his 
hands as he critically surveyed the bare and cheerless 
room into which his niece ushered him. * ‘ Is this the 
way you live, Penthesilea ? ” he asked, in a disap- 
pointed tone that vexed Miss Penny’s soul ; she re- 
membered that the Cross-roads store had not been much 
better furnished. 

“It is the way I live now,” said she. “I mean to 
live better after a while,” she added confidently. She 
was too much in the habit of looking upon herself as 
her own fate to say “ I hope. ” 

“ And you had some education,” said her uncle, mus- 
ingly. “But I don’t know as that signifies,” he con- 
tinued, with a sigh, ‘ ‘ Education never kept me in luck, 
nor my brother Archie, neither.” 

“Tell me about yourself, Uiicle Joe, “ asked Miss 
Penny, abruptly. “Where have you been all these 
years ? ” She looked at his clothes, trying to form some 
estimate of his worldly condition. She knew they 
were his best, for Gentleman Joe always went about in 
his best. 

Her uncle, unconscious of this scrutiny, looked at his 
hands meditatively, and slowly smiled ; then with a 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


151 

quick glance towards her as quickly averted, he re- 
plied : 

“ It would be easier to say where I ain’t been. Out 
West, mostly. I’ve wandered around in Texis, some, 
too. But I tell you, Penthesilea, I gave your step- 
mother a wide berth. You know she took the boys and 
went out to Texis after your father died about a year. 
She’s married again ; them masterful kind always do. 
And some of the boys married too. A managing crew, 
them boys ; they suit Texis, and Texis suits them. 
Be thankful they’ll stay there. What’s become of your 
sisters ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Miss Penny, gloomily. “ They 
married. ” 

“Well, to be sure, Belle and Henrietta were handsome 
girls,” mused Gentleman Joe. “ I’ll be bound they mar- 
ried well. And they forgot you, Penthesilea ? 

“ I don’t know ; I’ve slipped out of their lives for a 
time ; but when I’ve a fit home, I’ll stretch out my 
hands to them.” 

“ They may be dead, ” said her uncle, shaking his 
head. 

“No, no,” sighed Miss Penny. “I never have re- 
pented running away from that tavern life ; but I can’t 
forget my sisters.” 

“Well, Penthesilea, ” said her uncle, philosophically, 
“life is full of disappointments, you know; and you 
mightn’t find your sisters to your notion after you’d 
hunted ’em up. I wouldn’t count too much on ’em, if I 
was you. * Pears like they’ve forgot. ” 

“I left them,” said Miss Penny, stoutly, “and it’s 
for me to hunt them up, not for them to hunt me. But 
I’m not going to do it until I’m beyond suspicion of 
wanting help from them.” 

Her uncle looked at her some moments in meditative 
silence, before he remarked, admiringly : 

“ I always did say you were the best of the Lancas- 
ter bunch. How comes it you never married? You 
must have had your chance ? ” 

Miss Penny blushed scarlet ; but she had no mind to 
tell her uncle the story of Luke Rosser. 

“ I never had any offer that pleased me,” said she. 
“I like my own way. I always meant to have & farm 


I5 2 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

of my own, and to manage it according to my own 
notion.’’ 

And here Miss Penny, thinking of Mr. Joyce, sighed 
bitterly, but her uncle failed to remark the sigh. 

“And this is your own farm? ” he queried, eagerly ; 
and added with a shade of disappointment, “ It’s very 
out of the way, ain’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, ’’said Miss Penny, briefly. She felt an instinct- 
ive shrinking from confiding her views to her shiftless 
uncle, and yet her heart smote her for her distrust 

“Well, to be sure,” said Gentleman Joe, “the mind 
is its own place ; ” as Horace sings, Ccelum non animum 
mutant , et cetera.” By which bit of Latin Miss Penny 
knew that Gentleman Joe Lancaster was the same as 
of old, and she felt sure that sooner or later the fiddle 
would be forthcoming. 

“ It might be made a good farm, ” he continued ; ‘ ‘ but 
it appears to me rather a heavy lift for a woman alone, 
eh ? ” 

“ If you mean that as a hint for me to marry — you 
must have changed your views, Uncle Joe,” said Miss 
Penny, a little coldly. 

Mr. Joe Lancaster blushed vividly through his sun- 
burned sallowness ; looked sheepish and guilty, and 
jerked out the words : 

“ I married — myself — out yonder,” pointing over his 
shoulder with his thumb towards the vague and limit- 
less West. 

“You!” exclaimed Miss Penny; and she thought to 
herself, with mingled pity and amusement, that his 
wife must have been the chief of shrews. 

“It was — very unexpected ,” said Mr. Lancaster, 
seriously, “ you see it was thiser way, Penthesilea,” 
he pursued eagerly and apologetically, and lapsing into 
more and more careless English as his earnestness 
waxed deeper ; “ she was left all alone ; she hadn’t any 
kin, at least not out there, nobody to look to, and that 
fragile and delicate as a flower, t’would a broke your 
heart to see her. She come from away up North — East 
they called it, out there, and she hadn’t a cent upon 
earth, ’mong strangers, and I was in luck, that time ; I’d 
made money and was makin’ mo’ ; and I just hankered 
tp take care of her. So we got married.” His voice 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


153 

trembled a little, but he hurried on : “It was the 
same to me as if an angel had come out of Heaven ; 
she warn’t no common clay/’ 

“ And you married for — love ! ” Miss Penny ex- 
claimed. She did not intend to be unfeeling. 

Her uncle looked at her with a strange, unfathomable 
meaning in his eyes ; then he rose, and went to the 
open window, and stood there a long time silent, his 
gaze fixed upon the sky, rich with the tints of evening. 
His voice was husky when he spoke again : “I never 
asked her if she loved me ; ’twarn’t to be expected. ” 

A great pang shook Miss Penny’s heart, as she caught 
in his words, and in his sorrowful humility, the sug- 
gestion of some dire domestic tragedy ; but with this 
pang there mingled a vague apprehension of trouble in 
store for herself. ‘ ‘ And where is she now ? ” she felt 
impelled to ask. 

“She is in Heaven, I know ,” answered Joe Lancaster, 
devoutly. “ For she was perfection, and the most of 
good my money, when I had it, done me, was to keep 
her in comfort. But there’s Marjorie ; Marjorie is just 
after her pattern.” 

“ Marjorie? ” Miss Penny repeated. 

“Marjorie is the child,” said Mr. Lancaster, turning 
away from the window, and fixing his eyes imploringly 
upon his niece.” She is all I have,” he said in a chok- 
ing voice. 

In that one short, broken sentence, was revealed a 
wealth of affection, devoted, protecting, indulgent affec- 
tion, that Miss Penny had missed out of her own life. 

“And where is Marjorie ?” she asked, softly, yet not 
without misgiving, despite her sympathy ; for Miss Pen- 
ny, loving her independence, was afraid of the thrall- 
dom implied by the existence of this Majori 

Mr. Lancaster picked up the empty nail-keg that 
had served him for a seat, and brought it to his niece’s 
side, where he sat down, one leg stretched along the 
floor, the other curled under him, in most comfortless 
fashion. 

“ Penthesilea,” he said, clasping his hands appealing- 
ly,” don't you remember one frosty, Christmas morn- 
ing, when you came to me for shelter and help ? You 
wanted me to adopt you. and I would a done * 


154 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


could.” As usual Mr. Joe, in his earnestness, was 
lapsing into careless English — “but I was going to 
rack and ruin in that mizable little Georgia Cross-roads 
sto’. It warn’t no field for my talents, sure ; and it 
warn’t no place for you, I had made the decision to 
quit the concern, and seek my fortune. Well, I had 
my ups and downs. I meant always to do more for you ; 
I didn’t forget you, but I kinder lost you ; and I — I 
married. ” 

‘‘Yes,” Miss Penny assented, in the pause that fol- 
lowed. 

“ Well — that makes a difference,” said Mr. Lancaster, 
with some uneasiness. 

“I suppose it does,” said Miss Penny. 

“But don’t go to think I forgot you, Penthesilea,” he 
pleaded. “If I’d a continued prosperous, don’t you 
believe but I should a hunted you up, all the same ? But 
somehow, my luck turned ; none o’ my investments 
come to good. My wife died six years ago, and I 
seemed to lose my chances. She left me Marjorie, who 
warn’t mo’n eight years old. I been doin’ the best I 
could for her. I can’t git my consent to part from her. 
Eve hunted you up, Penthesilea, to ask you to — kinder 
adopt us both, ” Mr. Lancaster concluded, with a hesi- 
tating deprecatory smile, eying his niece furtively, in 
a vain endeavor, to read her inscrutable countenance. 

But Miss Penny remaining long silent, Mr. Lancaster 
burst forth again, with keen feeling : 

“You see I cannot part from the child! I cannot ! 
Her mother’s kin, up there at the North, offered to take 
her for their own, but her mother, with her dying breath, 
left her to me.” 

“You ought to consider her advantage,” said Miss 
Penny, judiciously. 

“I’ll see ’em in perdition fust!” Mr. Lancaster 
averred, with apparent irrelevance. “But I’d give her 
to you, Penthesilea — so far forth as I could give her to 
any one ; and you could so easy take us both. I’d do 
for you faithfully, Penthesilea ; I’m equal to plenty of 
tip-top work yet — just fifty-seven. I’d make a fust-rate 
farm-boy,” he urged, with a feeble attempt at playful- 
ness. “I dare say by this time you’ve found out a 
woman can’t manage a farm all alone by herself. ” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


55 


Miss Penny winced. This closing remark had struck 
home, so far as regarded that day’s experience ; but Miss 
Penny was by no means ready to declare that she could 
not manage her farm unaided ; and she could see but 
little advantage to be gained in substituting the meddle- 
someness of her uncle Joe for the meddlesomeness of 
her man Joyce. She was not to blame, if with a larger 
experience of life she could not, at the age of thirty- 
seven, see her “scatter-minded” kinsman with quite 
the same eyes of seventeen. Miss Penny the farmer 
rejected Mr. Joe Lancaster’s proposition uncondition- 
ally ; but Miss Penny the woman felt her heart go out 
irresistibly to that motherless girl for whom he uttered 
his plea. She was not given to weak sentimentality, 
but brave, resolute, and independent though she was, 
she had learned, since the attainment of her long-fixed 
purpose to possess a farm of her own, that it is a fearful 
thing to live for one’s self alone ; she had not been able, 
with all her courage, to escape that 

u Vague sense of silence and horror and distance, 

A strange sort of faint-footed fear ” 

which waits upon isolation. Yet Miss Penny trembled 
at the thought of so momentous an undertaking as the 
training of a young girl like Marjorie, the idol of a 
doting parent. 

“ How did you discover me, Uncle Joe ? ” she asked, 
while her swift thoughts outran the present and ques- 
tioned the future as to the possibilities for regret and 
congratulation the possession of her uncle’s daughter 
might involve. 

“Discover you? ” repeated Uncle Joe, with a chill at 
his heart. “You weren’t hiding from your kith and 
kin, were you, Penthesilea ? ” 

“No, no. But none of the rest have found me in all 
these years.” 

“Maybe they didn’t let on about it,” said Mr. Lan- 
caster, shrewdly. 

“ How did you find me ?” Miss Penny repeated, with 
a sense of bitterness in the thought that his necessity, 
not his regard, had spurred him to the search. 

“ Well — it was accident,” said Mr. Joe. 

Miss Penny stared. 


1 56 PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 

“Accident/' repeated Mr. Joe; “so to say. You 
don’t take the Atlanta papers, eh, Penthesilea? ” 

“No,” said Miss Penny, wearily; “ I take only an 
agricultural journal.” 

“You might have seen something,” proceeded Gen- 
tleman Joe, with an air of agreeable mystery, as he 
drew from his pocket a bulky bundle. “My — er — ad- 
vertisement — hem ! was in the Constitution , and — ” 

“You didn't advertise for me?” exclaimed Miss 
Penny. 

“No ; my business advertisement, I mean. Here is 
one of my programs.” 

“Programs? ” repeated Miss Penny, mechanically. 

“I had to change my name, sorter,” Mr. Joe ex- 
plained, “ Signor Lancastro. Hem ! ” And he pro- 
ceeded to read, in a manner oddly mingled of vanity 
and deprecation, from the paper he had unfolded, his 
voice giving due emphasis and importance to the pro- 
fusion of capitals : 

SIGNOR LANCASTRO, PRESTIDIGATEUR. 

Inimitable Entertainment ! 

Feats of Magic ! 

Wonderful Illusions ! 

Ventriloquism! Music! 

Miss Penny was speechless. In her childhood at 
Lancaster’s Tavern, she had occasionally been thrown 
with the class of people who ministered in this way to 
the amusement of the public, and their forlorn and wan- 
dering existence had filled her with an infinite pity, even 
while she shrank from them. She could not reconcile 
herself to the idea that her uncle Joe had descended to 
such a calling. 

He understood her silence. “ You see,” he explained, 
with a pathetic smile, “ I’ve had to turn my talents to 
account. Lord, Penthesilea ! all the Latin and Greek 
ever I learned ain’t been so much good to me as the 


FENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


*57 

sleight-o’-hand that seemed to come natural. And it 
was for the child. ” 

“And she — what part did she take ?" asked Miss 
Penny, aghast, a vision of a girl in gossamer caper- 
ing on a tight-rope, rising in her fancy. 

“Good Lord ! " exclaimed Mr. Joe, bouncing from his 
keg. ‘ ‘ Do you suppose I let her go — go — go — before 
the public as a show P ” 

Miss Penny heaved a sigh of relief. “If that's all 
you can do ” said she, with a touch of unconscious 
scorn — “tramping around the country playing tricks 
with hats, and handkerchiefs and rings." And Miss 
Penny recalled with a sort of contemptuous wonder 
at herself how proud she used to be of her uncle Joe's 
feats of legerdemain. “Oh, Uncle Joe, that you should 
come to this ! " she almost groaned. 

“I'd do anything for the child," said he, stoutly. 
“Except give her up to her Yankee kin. I — I — I can't 
bring myself to feel I'm bound to do that. " 

“ And you take her around with you ? " 

“Not to my exhibitions — no !" said Gentleman Joe, 
magniloquently. “ I ain't ashamed of any work I do 
for her — she's her mother’s child — but I can't have her 
lookin' on. You needn't go to think she's contaminated. 
She’s fourteen years old, and as sweet as a pink. I've 
taken care of Marjorie, and I’ve put her to school some ; 
but it’s time she had a steady home, and I had almost 
made up my mind to give her up to her kin when I 
come across Mrs. Braid. " 

“ Mrs. Braid ! " Miss Penny repeated. She had not 
thought of Mrs. Braid for years. 

“She's in Atlanta, patching up her business a little. 
I thought once I’d . consult her about Marjorie, when 
just by accident I found out 'bout you. For old sake's 
sake, Mrs. Braid give me and the child a room rent-free. 
Well, Marjorie she took cold with fever and sore throat, 
and I sent in a hurry for the first doctor that could be 
found ; and, sure as you live, Penthesilea, it was 
Malcolm Griffiths, you know, used to be in Little War- 
renton. " 

Miss Penny clasped her hands in sore dismay. She 
saw in her uncle's face that he had heard the story of 
Morrison Kendric's rescue and of Luke Rosser’s tragedy. 


158 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

“And he told me about you,” continued Mr. Lancas- 
ter, “how you saved the Yankee Colonel, and how 
that no ’count fellow got killed out o’ your way ; and I 
just said, a woman what’s got that pluck and that luck 
is the one to take Marjorie, and be a mother to her. 
And Dr. Griffith, he told me where you’d settled. It was 
the finger of Providence pointing out the way, and I 
just followed . ’’ 

There was a long silence. Miss Penny, too, thought 
she saw the finger of Providence, but whether it pointed 
the way of joy or sorrow, she was sorely in doubt, and 
her heart, between fear and hope, knocked at her side. 
When at last she spoke, it seemed to her not that she 
had made a decision, but that she had surrendered to 
inevitable destiny. 

“ It shall be as you wish, Uncle Joe,” she said, and 
sighed. What else could she say ? 

Mr. Lancaster blew his nose sonorously, and wiped 
his eyes, and squeezed his niece’s hands. No other 
reply was he capable of making for some moments. 

“Where is Marjorie? ” said Miss Penny. “The sooner 
you bring her the better. ” 

“She’s at Briarville Hotel. I didn’t care to bring her 
to an uncertain welcome, you see. But I’ll walk back 
to-morrow, and you shall have her before night. She’s 
an uncommonly nice little thing, Penthesilea ; it is un- 
accountable what a nice little thing she is, except that 
her mother was just as nice. And you are bound to 
like her, Penthesilea, you are just bound to like her.” 


CHAPTER XIX, 

MARJORIE. 

Miss Penny built no high hopes upon her uncle’s as- 
surance of Marjorie’s perfections. She knew that she 
was taking a great risk, how great a risk she made no 
attempt to estimate ; she left that for the future to reveal.' 
What most nearly concerned her now, was the in- 
evitable increase of expenditure ; for she could not sup- 
pose that a man who tramped about the country with a 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


159 

fiddle and a prestidigateur’s “properties” could be pos- 
sessed of any funds in hand. 

“It will be necessary to buy some furniture, I sup- 
pose,” said Miss Penny, partly in debate with herself, 
and partly by way of discovering her uncle’s pecuniary 
resources ; but her uncle was silent. 

“ I will get you the money,” said she, at last, with a 
sigh, for her funds were running low, and she had a 
dread of debt that a man might call morbid. 

“All right ! I’ll make the very best bargain for you 
I can, Penthesilea, said Gentleman Joe, cheerfully. He 
had money, quite a respectable little sum, but he did not 
see fit to confess this comfortable fact to his niece, who, 
for aught he knew, might have developed a grasping 
disposition in her single-handed struggle with the world ; 
and what was his he meant to keep for Marjorie ; that 
truly was none of Penthesilea's business, moreover the 
furniture, when bought, would be hers, and not his. 

Miss Penny, in spite of her convictions as to the un- 
remunerativeness of her uncle’s “profession,” felt dis- 
appointed and injured. She went out without another 
word and cooked supper, for Mrs Joyce had a con- 
venient “misery” in her side which interfered with all 
exertion, but which did not prevent her eating heartily 
of the biscuit and bacon when the meal was served. 

Mr. Joyce, who also shared this meal, failed to do it 
equal justice, for Gentleman Joe being of a social tem- 
perament, felt under obligation to entertain the company 
with stories of his adventures, at which Joyce stared, 
wide-eyed and open-mouthed, except when his faithful 
spouse nudged him with a reminder that “if he didn’t 
look sharp he wouldn’t get his share.” 

A rug and a blanket with an armful or two of hay was 
the best substitute for a bed Miss Penny could offer her 
kinsman, but he, relieved of his anxiety about a home 
for Marjorie, slept serenely. 

Not so his niece. The future, with its tremendous 
possibilities, for weal or woe, in its connection with the 
unknown young girl whom on the morrow she was to 
take into her life, so weighed upon her imagination that 
she could not sleep. But when one has accepted the 
inevitable, regret is a folly, as Miss Penny very well 
knew, and with the dawn came the remembrance of that 


160 PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 

promise about casting bread upon the waters, and she 
arose in better hopes and stouter courage. 

Her first step was to inform Mr. and Mrs. Joyce of 
the contemplated change in her domestic arrangements. 
She fully expected them to break out in open rebellion, 
and she wished to have the struggle over with as soon 
as might be. She was rather disagreeably surprised at 
the alacrity with which they bestirred themselves to 
make such preparation as was needful, inasmuch as it 
conveyed to her mind the mortifying suspicion that the 
presence of a man in her affairs had inspired this prompt 
response to her authority. Mrs. Joyce cooked break- 
fast without undue delay, and Mr. Joyce, of his own 
accord, went out and saddled ‘ ‘ our sawrill, ” as he per- 
sisted in designating Miss Penny’s one horse ; but both 
he and his wife lingered to see Mr. Joe Lancaster 
“ fairly started,” watching him until he rode over the 
hill and out of sight, Joyce leaning over the gate, and his 
wife supporting her limp and languid length against the 
door-post. It was plain that these two regarded the 
new-comer with an admiring reverence and interest they 
did not feel for their employer. 

“Tell yer what, Miss Lankster,” said Joyce, as he 
came back to the house, “hit’s the fust time ever I come 
in actual cawntact of a man what has been in a land 
whar gold is dug. I’d ’low, now, he’s grabbled a 
power o’ the metal outen them Western hills in less time 
and less labor than we’ll grabble a livin’ outen this land.” 

“I know nothing about it,” said MissPenny, shortly, 
as she walked off to her garden, where she busied her 
hands pulling up weeds, and her head devising plans 
for the future. 

Joyce watched her as she went with sullen disap- 
proval, remarking to his wife : 

“ Miss Lankster can’t fool me. Ef he’s been whar he 
says he’s been, stands to reason he must a dug up some 
gold, or she wouldn’t make him so free and welcome. 
‘Tain’t in natur’.” 

“ Diggin’ gold is better’n hoein’ cotton and corn,” said 
Almirey, despondently. 

“Sure hit is ! I’ve a good notion to try hit, myself. 
We kin go West as easy as go East ; and all we’ll need 
will be a shovel and a skillet.” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . jgj 

“ And a bottle o' medicine/’ supplemented Mrs. Joyce, 
with a doleful emphasis ; and thus they continued, 
while their work waited for them. Could Miss Penny 
but have known it, her uncle's influence with these two, 
so far as concerned what they had to do with her af- 
fairs, was not likely to su"pass her own. 

Just before sundown, Mr. Joe Lancaster returned with 
Marjorie, in a little old rattling topless buggy, drawn by 
a gaunt, big-boned horse. The crazy vehicle was 
cumbered by two small trunks, and a large wooden box 
padlocked. Behind the buggy, followed a boy mount- 
ed on Miss Penny’s sorrel. Manifestly this boy came 
for the purpose of taking the buggy and the other horse 
back on the morrow. 

Now it was not more than a mile to the town, and as 
Miss Penny thought nothing of such a walk for herself, 
she had been a little disposed to demur to her uncle’s 
taking the sorrel ; but he had explained that Marjorie 
was not strong, and could not stand fatigue. Miss 
Penny had expected, therefore, that the girl would ride 
behind Mr. Joe Lancaster on horseback, while their bag- 
gage could come with the little cot and mattress, and 
three chairs she had felt compelled to buy. Secretly 
she raged against her uncle for indulging in the luxury 
of a buggy. Necessary expenditure she did not be- 
grudge, however she might sigh over her shrinking 
purse, but unnecessary expenditure, were it never so 
little, fretted her. Mr. Joe, however, who could not 
divine his niece’s feelings, seeing that he prided himself 
upon having planned his little expedition with exem- 
plary forethought and management, lifted Marjorie out, 
and presented her with a glowing pride that quite trans- 
figured his worn and melancholy visage. 

To say that Miss Penny was disappointed, would be 
but a mild expression for the consternation that seized 
her at the sight of this dainty, fragile child. And yet 
she had done her best to fortify herself against disap- 
pointment ; she had warned herself not to expect a girl 
after her own heart. Marjorie, she had made sure, 
could not be other than an untamed child of the plains, 
an old man’s wilful, spoiled darling, unmanageable, and 
capable of giving her a world of trouble, but a robust, 
rustic withal, fitted to make part and parcel of the farm 

II 


1 62 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 

life, to rise at cock-crow, to feed the hens, to brave the 
sun and wind, to look after the dairy, and if need 
were, to milk the cows, to harness the horse, and even 
to help gather the crop. But this Marjorie was a slight, 
delicate child of fourteen, with curling, red-brown hair, 
and large brown eyes, and a face like a flower. Miss 
Penny was so overwhelmed by a sense of the utter use- 
lessness of this delicate beauty in such a home as hers 
that no word of welcome came to her lips. She took 
Marjorie’s hand and kissed her, with a feeling akin to 
awe, as though she kissed a creature from another 
sphere, but she did not speak. 

“What do you think of my girl, Penthesilea, eh? 
What do you think of her? ” Mr. Joe Lancaster asked, 
eagerly, rubbing his hands, andlookingat Marjorie with 
his head now on this side, now on that. 

“She is not like you,” said Miss Penny, bluntly; 
“She is not the least bit like a Lancaster.” 

“Well, no,” said Mr. Joe, with a crestfallen look. 
“ I told you she is like her mother. Her mother had 
just such eyes and hair, and the same sort of face.” 

“I’m afraid she’ll find this too rough a home,” said 
Miss Penny, leading the way to the house. 

“I’ll fix it up a bit,” said Mr. Joe Lancaster, compla- 
cently. “And Marjorie has a good knack at beautify- 
ing, her mother’s knack. Think you’ll like it, eh, Mar- 
jorie ? ” he asked, anxiously. 

They were now in the bare and comfortless room 
where Miss Penny kept her crockery and ate her meals. 
Marjorie’s glance travelled around this cheerless room, 
and then rested on old Joe Lancaster’s expectant face 
with a smile of childlike content. 

“I could be satisfied anywhere with a home and you , 
Daddy Joe,” she made reply; and the old man put his 
arms around her and kissed her, saying, with a sigh : 

“You are powerful like your mother, child, power- 
ful ; you’ll seem to be pleased, if you ain’t. ” 

“But I am pleased,” Marjorie insisted, in her soft 
voice, and with an appealing look at Miss Penny. 

But Miss Penny did not respond. Her heart was 
swelling with jealous resentment. Not that she objected 
to occupying the second place in her uncle Joe’s af- 
fections ; she had too long outgrown the blind devotion 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. ^3 

with which she once regarded this favorite relative, — 
but her little farm was all her own, crude and rough 
though it was, as yet, and it vexed her inmost soul to 
have these two infringe upon her sacred possession 
with hints of plans in which she seemed to be ignored. 

“ I should have things different if I could afford it,” 
said she, curtly, as she went away to have the trunks 
brought in. 

“Yes ; I’ll make it comfortable for you, Marjorie, be 
sure of that,” said Mr. Joe, in blissful ignorance of Miss 
Penny’s resentment, and innocent of all intention of 
infringing upon her rights. ‘ ‘ I always was handy about 
a house,” he continued, as he walked up and down the 
little room, rubbing his hands. “In the way of fixing 
up shelves and the like, I’m not to be beat. You shall 
have all the flowers you want, too, and Penthesilea 
will thank her stars that ever we came.” 

“I hope so,” sighed Marjorie. Miss Penny’s welcome 
had not cheered her. 

Meantime, Miss Penny w r as very busy. She had 
sent the boy back with the horse and buggy, and had 
put the sorrel in the stable and fed him, knowing the 
while, that she would have supper to cook, for Mrs. 
Joyce’s misery had gone to that ailing woman’s head 
It seemed out of the question that Marjorie should lend 
a helping hand in Miss Penny’s life, for even if her 
uncle Joe were willing that the child should work — 
which Miss Penny doubted — what work could so dainty 
and delicate a creature do ? 

“ Pity but her mother’s kin had her in charge,” Miss 
Penny lamented to herself, little foreseeing that a day 
would come when the thought of giving her up to her 
mother’s kin would be as bitter to herself as to her 
uncle Joe. “It’s going to be a mill-stone around my 
neck to drag me down,” she sighed. 

She began to feel the weight of the mill-stone as soon 
as she questioned her uncle Joe about his purchases. 
This she did immediately after supper, while Mrs. 
Joyce washed the dishes, and detailed her symptoms, 
and the unavailingness of that last mixture to her 
sympathizing spouse. Miss Penny knew that she would 
have no time on the morrow to talk to Mr. Joe; and, 
besides, she had an uncomfortable suspicion that she 


1 64 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

should not approve what he had done, and she was the 
more anxious, therefore, to know the worst. 

“ I suppose,” said she, after vainly waiting for her 
uncle to make report of his shopping. "I suppose that 
the things you bought this morning will be sent to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Yes, oh yes; I ordered them cyarted out early.” 
Mr. Joe’s emphasis on the word ‘ early ' seemed to 
arrogate to himself great merit in his management. 
“You’ll have to make out as best you can until then, 
Marjorie,” he added. 

This parental solicitude fretted Miss Penny : was 
Marjorie’s comfort to be the only consideration hence- 
forth ? 

“But you brought the bills with you ! Receipted, of 
course ? ” she asked, impatiently. 

“Well — no,” he answered, slowly. “You see, I 
augmented your list, Penthesilea, had to do it” he em- 
phasized, perceiving her dismay. “You made it in 
such a hurry. Fust place, I got a mirror for Marjorie, 
and instead of a cot, a reg’lar bedstead, a small bed- 
stead, you know. / can dispense with such, myself, 
but she can’t.” 

“Oh, Daddy Joe ! ” sighed Marjorie, reproachfully. 

Yexed as Miss Penny was with her uncle, it fretted 
her yet the more to hear Marjorie give him the appella- 
tion of Daddy Joe. This was no time, however, to ex- 
press her disapproval. 

“ What did you do with the money ? ” she asked, re- 
straining her irritation as best she could. 

“Oh, I made it go as far as ’twould,” replied Mr. Lan- 
caster. “ I had to pay the buggy-hire, you know, for 
of course they wouldn’t trust a stranger. ” 

“Oh, Daddy Joe? ” interrupted Marjorie, again. “I 
could have walked. ” 

“No, you couldn't , Marjorie,” Mr. Joe answered 
fretfully. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. 
And I warn’t going to let you, nohow. ” 

“She might have ridden behind you on the sorrel,” 
Miss Penny could not resist saying. 

‘ ’ Twould a tired her,” said Mr. Joe, with the tone 
and air of dismissing that point. “So, I paid the 
k u ggy-hire, and so far forth as ’twould pay the other 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 165 

things, I paid. It’s credited in the bill ; and the rest 
that’s due — well, you’ll have to settle with the man that 
cyarts them. I arranged for that. He’ll have authority 
to collect, and all you'll have to do will be to pay. ” 

“ Oh, yes S ” said Miss Penny, dryly. 

“Don’t worry ’bout it, Penthesilea,” her uncle en- 
treated, deprecatingly. “It’s all fust-class, and will 
count as property .” 

“I could have done without such property, for the 
present,” said Miss Penny. 

“But Marjorie couldn’t /” her uncle declared, as if 
that settled the question ; but he added, tremulously, 
“ I’m bound to do the best I honestly can by the child. 
You see I promised her mother.” 

“If you call this honest” — rose to Miss Penny's lips, 
but she checked the words before they were uttered. 

“I am so sorry ! ” murmured Marjorie. 

“Now, now, honey, don’t you worry,” entreated Mr. 
Lancaster, laying his hands on the girl’s head. “Pen- 
thesilea is bound to get on, fix it how you may. She'll 
have to exercise management, maybe — ” 

“Yes,” Miss Penny assented,” that is very evident. 

( ‘ ‘ Between this doting old man, and this spoiled child, 
Heaven help my farm and me ! ” she thought.) “ I’m 
of the opinion that Marjorie would be much better off 
with her mother’s people,” she said, with decision. 

“Now, don’t say that, Penthesilea, now don't\ ” 
whimpered Mr. Joe. “Her mother was willing for me 
to keep her, and I can’t g ive her up. You don’t want to 
leave me, do you, Marjorie? ” 

“No, Daddy Joe,” said Marjorie, pulling his shaggy 
head down to give him a kiss. “ I want to stay with 
you always.” 

“She’ll have to put up with hardships and priva- 
tions, ” said Miss Penny. ‘ 4 1 get up with the dawn myself, 
and go to work ; and I go to bed early to save lights. 
It’s no easy life, but it suits me, and I can’t change it to 
suit others*. So Marjorie will have to do pretty much 
as I do. I’m going to bed now. There’s the same 
blanket and rug you had last night, Uncle Joe ; it’s the 
best I can do for you ; and I’ll make Marjorie as com- 
fortable as I can ! ” 


i66 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


CHAPTER XX. 

FIRST FRUITS. 

Miss Penny pointed out to Marjorie the improvised 
bed upon which she was to sleep, without apology for 
its poor comfort ; but she did not immediately betake 
herself to her own hard couch ; more tired in spirit than 
in body, she sat by the window, striving to calm her 
vexed thoughts. There was no light in the room, save 
what came from the stars, and no sound, until a soft 
voice broke the silence : how strangely soft and sweet 
it sounded, in Miss Penny’s unaccustomed ears ! 

“I am so sorry!” said Marjorie. “I wish you 
would let me tell you ? ” 

And then a long-drawn sigh. 

But Miss Penny was in no mood to be soothed or 
flattered ; she maintained an obdurate silence, gazing in 
bitterness of heart upon her fields, where Mr. Joyce’s 
cotton was growing in the moist stillness ; and Marjorie, 
shy and timid, sat up in bed and gazed at her. 

She did not resent Miss Penny’s coldness, she did not 
even feel injured by it. Her unselfish heart ached with 
a vague sense of having been the cause of trouble, until, 
at last, her desire to comfort overcame her timidity. 
She rose, and went to Miss Penny’s side, saying again, 
in those soft, low tones : 

“ I am so sorry ! I do not mean to be a trouble to 
you ; in some things I might be a help.” 

Miss Penny turned quickly ; the child had helped her 
already. This tender, living creature, this loving human 
heart, was it not better worth her love and cherishing 
than all her fields? She began to understand in a 
measure, how it was that hervuncle Joe could not yield 
this child to her mother’s kindred ; and a strange fear, 
like a prophecy, crept suddenly to Miss Penny’s heart, 
a fear that she too might grow to love Marjorie so well 
that to part from her would be agony. The thought 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. r 67 

made her brusque. ‘ * I don’t know, ” she said, uneasily ; 
“ there doesn’t seem to be anything you can do.” 

“Try me,” urged Marjorie. “Try me, to-morrow! 
And, please — what am I to call you ? ” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Miss Penny, with em- 
barrassment. “You can call me what you like ; but I 
wish — I wish you wouldn’t call my uncle ‘ Daddy Joe’. 
It doesn’t sound right to me.” 

“ I’ve always called him so,” said Marjorie, “ and he 
likes it. Almost the first thing I can remember is being 
carried on his shoulder, and learning to say ‘ Daddy 
Joe’.” 

Miss Penny did not insist. “ Did he name you Mar- 
jorie?” she asked. It was not the kind of name she 
would have expected her uncle Joe to choose. 

“No; it was my mother named me her mother’s 
name,” said the girl, softly. 

“ Well, I like it 1 ” said Miss Penny. “ It suits with 
a farm, and it seems to be the only thing about you 
that does suit with a farm. ” She didn’t mean to be dis- 
couraging ; but she could not expect such a girl as this 
to be anything more than an ornament; and according to 
her views, it was not ornament that her farm stood 
most in need of at present 

“I’ll try my very best to learn,” said Marjorie, with 
pathetic earnestness. 

“Well, go to bed,” Miss Penny commanded, express- 
ing the depth of the interest she was beginning to feel 
in this new-comer by using authority. “You will take 
cold.” 

But Marjorie only drew nearer to Miss Penny. 
“There is something else you must let me say,” she 
whispered, timidly. “I’m afraid my Daddy Joe — • 
is a very poor manager. You will have to manage — ” 

“Yes, I dare say,” Miss Penny admitted, briefly. 

“But he tries his best,” faltered Marjorie; “and it 
isn’t because I do not love him that I tell you this.” 

“I know, I know,” said Miss Penny, a little impa- 
tiently, for it irked her to remember her uncle Joe’s 
great lack ; then, vexed with herself, she put her arms 
around Marjorie and kissed her, condemning herself the 
while ; the girl got coddling enough, she thought, from 
that fond and foolish old man. “There, Marjorie,” she 


1 68 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER, 

said, withdrawing her arms, “go to bed and go to 
sleep. ” 

But Marjorie, speaking from a full heart, could not 
stay her words. 

“And you see — I love my daddy ! ” she went on im- 
petuously ; “for all he doesn't know how to manage. 
It is mostly because he loves me so that he — he doesn't 
consider. He means to do the best for me. But some- 
times — "and the child clasped her hands above her heart, 
as she caught her breath sharply — “I feel the need of 
some one that knows better than he can. I suppose I 
miss my mother, I was so little when she died. Let me 
be of use to you," she pleaded ; “ so that you may need 
me. 

“Yes, Marjorie, yes," said Miss Penny, glad of the 
darkness that hid her agitation. “ I am obliged to work 
hard, you see, and to live hard ; but as long as you 
can stand it, you are welcome and I can't sit up all night 
to talk. Go to bed, child." 

Marjorie sighed ; but Miss Penny rose up from the 
window, lighter-hearted, for she was asking herself the 
question : “Why should I not cherish this child, frail, 
little useless creature though she seems to be, just as 
some women take to canary birds ? " 

Of a certainty it did not appear that Marjorie would 
be any more in the way of the farm than a pet bird : it 
was her Uncle Joe that make her uneasy. 

Miss Penny rose earlier than her wont the next morn- 
ing, and went to work in the garden, for nothing but 
work would keep down the weeds, and there was no 
evidence that two more to feed meant even one more to 
work. She had left Marjorie asleep, which in Miss 
Penny’s estimation was just the right thing to do, she 
having accepted the fact quite as decidedly as her uncle 
Joe, that Marjorie was not made for toil ; but after an 
hour’s diligent hoeing that made her hungry, she was 
provoked when she turned her face toward the house, 
to see her uncle Joe basking in the sunshine. 

“There are weeds enough out here," Miss Penny 
said aloud, in her exasperation/ “if he was minded to 
go to work ; but I can’t order him about. ’’ Therefore 
Miss Penny wisely turned her back. 

When, after an hour or two of hard work, she went 


PENNY LANCASTER, FA RMER . 


169 

into the house, she saw at once that defter hands than 
Mrs.. Joyce’s had made things tidy ; and there stood 
Marjorie, sweet as a flower, and ready with a smile to 
take Miss Penny’s big hat, and her coarse leather gloves. 
It was Marjorie, too, that helped to arrange the furni- 
ture when it came, finding pleasant words to say the 
while. 

From that day Marjorie’s reign began ; and Miss Pen- 
ny soon made the surprising discovery that the end and 
aim of all her craving to possess a farm of her own, 
was to secure a home for this gentle, dainty creature, 
who, though she now and then met with ignominious 
failure in her attempts to coax easy-going old Joe Lan- 
caster out of some objectionable whim, found no diffi- 
culty in establishing an absolute sway over his inde- 
pendent niece. 

For Marjorie speedily found enough to do. Too fra- 
gile for that outdoor work Miss Penny loved, she busied 
herself about all those household duties for which Mrs. 
Joyce had no inclination, and Miss Penny no time. 

But Gentleman Joe was very slow in discovering any 
useful post for him to fill. He occupied his time chiefly 
in exploring the farm, for the sole purpose, apparently, 
of revealing to his niece all the bad points and disad- 
vantages of her purchase, always with the serenest 
good-will imaginable. In the evening he fiddled, to the 
infinite repose of Mrs. Joyce’s mind and body. “Fid- 
dlin’,” said she, “did make doin’ nothin’ ’pear to come 
so easy.” 

The Joyces, man and wife had soon made up their 
minds that Mr. Lancaster had no money ; and they 
speculated freely in private as to how long “ Miss Lan- 
caster” would put up with these impecunious relations. 
“Fur she’s got a skinned eye after the dimes,” said 
Joyce. 

“ And she air that onrestless what she can't stand to 
see nobody stop to ketch breath,” said Almirey ; “ and 
hit ’pears to me he’s ketchin’ breath nigh ’ bout all 
day.” 

“ I ain't complainin' that he's any way slack o' knowl- 
edge, nor pertickler sca'ce about partin' with it onde- 
manded,” remarked Mr. Joyce who resented the floods 
of advice Miss Penny's uncle poured upon him ; “but 


170 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


if ever he had any money hit must a dreened away 
from him somehow. He don’t ’pear to have no grip on 
nothin’. ” 

“ Exceptin’ of that fiddle ? ” said Almirey, with admi- 
ration unfeigned. “I been athinking how he mought 
mek a lettle money fiddlin’ in Dunstaby’s saloon.” 

This idea so possessed Almirey’s imagination that she 
ventured one evening, as Gentleman Joe sat fiddling in 
the dusk, to give emphatic expression thereto. 

The rapt musician instantly arrested his bow-arm 
with an air of serious consideration ; whereupon Mar- 
jorie went to him, and putting her arms around his 
neck, said softly : 

“ I don’t want yowever to do that, please Daddy Joe ! ” 

“ Marjorie,” said Miss Penny, afterwards, when they 
were alone, “do you think my uncle capable of follow- 
ing that lazy woman’s suggestion ? ” 

Marjorie was slow to answer. She looked at Miss 
Penny beseechingly, blushed, turned away, and said, 
with a long-drawn sigh , “I hope not ! ” 

“As if there was not enough work to be done ! ” 
said Miss Penny, with sore indignation. 

However, as Miss Penny’s crops grew in the sun- 
shine and the showers, and the garden began to repay 
her labor, Mr. Joe awoke to the perception that this de- 
partment of the business demanded his talents and atten- 
tion. 

“ There’s more than enough, Penthesilea, ” said he, 
“for family consumption; and if you had a cyart, it 
would pay to take these vegetables to town. ” 

“ I suppose it would,” Miss Penny admitted with secret 
uneasiness, for she had by no means desired to have 
her unde Joe take part in this branch of the business : 
but if he could have felt disposed to slaughter the weeds, 
how welcome would have been his aid ! 

“ Couldn’t you afford to hire a cyart, Penthesilea ? ” 
he urged, impatiently. “It’s a sheer waste, more veg- 
etables than we want.” 

“ I’ll manage,” said Miss Penny, briefly. 

“Then I’ll help you gather the Vegetables this even- 
ing, and get ready for market, if you’ll get the cyart to- 
morrow,” said Mr. Joe, with what he felt to be com- 
mendable alacrity. 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 1 y l 

“Very well,” his niece replied, but without enthusi- 
asm. She had made up her mind that she herself, and 
not her uncle Joe, must peddle those vegetables. 

It did not escape Miss Penny that Marjorie showed 
marked signs of uneasiness at this conversation. The 
child followed them into the garden, when they went to 
the work of gathering the vegetables, to the manifest 
annoyance of Mr. Lancaster, who said to her, fretfully : 

“Now, Marjorie, this is no work for you.” 

But Marjorie lingered, hovering always near Miss 
Penny ; and when they were out of sight and out of 
hearing of Mr. Joe, she exclaimed, abruptly: 

“ I wish I was a boy ! ” 

“Why do you wish that?” said Miss Penny, ill- 
pleased. “ I like you best as you are ; boys would be 
in mischief.” 

“But I wouldn’t be that kind of a boy ; I would be 
useful ; and I would sell your vegetables. ” 

“ I can sell them myself, Marjorie,” said Miss Pen- 
ny, with decision. 

“Is that what you are going to do ? ” returned Mar- 
jorie, in a tone of unmistakable relief. “ I was afraid — ” 

“ Afraid ? ” said Miss Penny, seeing that she hesitated. 

“Oh, dont let Daddy Joe ; He cartt take care of 
money ;” said Marjorie, flushing crimson. “ He means 
no wrong ; but he cant” 

“Does he — drink P” said Miss Penny, with tactless 
straightforwardness, not meaning to wound ; but she 
thought it behooved her to know. 

“ Oh, no, no, no!” cried Marjorie, with the first sign 
of anger Miss Penny had ever seen her exhibit. “ Oh, 
how can you think that ? My dear Daddy Joe ! Only 
— he makes away with it, somehow.” 

“Oh !” said Miss Penny, briefly. She could not sug- 
gest that possibly he gambled. 

“ If I should die,” faltered Marjorie, “ be good to him ; 
he means no wrong ; but — don’t trust business to him.” 

“I mean to manage my own business, always,” said 
Miss Penny, dryly. 

In pursuance of this purpose, she rose long before her 
usual hour, and having made a hasty meal of the rem- 
nants of last night’s supper, she saddled the sorrel, 
lashed the two baskets of vegetables firmly together. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


1J2 

and slung them across the horse. Thus equipped, she 
started for town before Mrs. Joyce had yet made her ap- 
pearance, and while her uncle Joe was still snoring. 
The bell had not yet rung for breakfast when she rode 
up to the Briarville hotel. 

Unabashed by the sly jokes her early advent inspired, 
Miss Penny sat upon her raw-boned sorrel, her short 
skirts tucked about her feet, her broad hat dipping and 
ducking as her head bobbed up and down, while she 
triumphantly exhibited the produce of her own soil. At 
last she was upon the threshold of her hopes, and nei- 
ther the remembrance of her uncle Joe, hanging a use- 
less idler upon her bounty, nor the thoughts of Mr. Joyce 
planting cotton where she had meant to have corn, 
could dull her keen satisfaction in the five dollars she 
held in her hand, when her vegetables were sold. She 
had over and over again earned larger sums, but never 
a cent, until now, by “ the yield o' the yeth,” and Miss 
Penny determined that these five dollars, the first fruits 
of her industry, should be sacred to her idol, the farm — 
every cent of it should go towards paying for some 
needed improvement. And as she rode homeward, for- 
getting that trite fable of the milkmaid, she pleased her- 
self building air-castles. 

Five dollars a day — perhaps not that much every 
day, to be on the safe side in her calculations — but say 
four dollars, or even three ; that would be eighteen dol- 
lars a week, perhaps twenty-one dollars, for on Satur- 
day she could sell for Sunday, and four times twenty- 
one would be eighty-four dollars in a month ! From the 
garden alone ! 

Miss Penny whipped the sorrel and made him gallop ; 
she was eager to be at those weeds. For she had made 
some little delay in the town, trying to learn the needs 
of the people in regard to garden produce, and she had 
some indications that Briarville was inclined to neglect 
the cultivation of the summer garden for the summer 
boarder. The far-away Southern coast and the malarial 
districts were beginning to discover the town, and Miss 
Penny felt that the future of her farm was assured ; it 
was growing its last cotton-stalk this summer ; and she 
gave her horse a vicious tug, as though he had been 
that animal Joyce. 


. PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. , ?3 

The sorrel was a patient creature, but Joyce himself 
could not have given a more resentful plunge, or 
achieved a more prompt revenge. The saddle girth 
broke, and Miss Penny was landed violently in the 
middle of the road, covered with dust, and not a little 
bruised and shaken ■ and the indignant sorrel trotted 
remorselessly away. 

Miss Penny knew that he would go straight to his 
stable ; and there was she, more than half-a-mile from 
home, and that saddle and both baskets to carry. With 
unspoken maledictions of the feminine gender, she 
gathered herself and her belongings together, and 
trudged along the hot and dusty road. 

It was near noon when she come in sight of her 
gate, where stood the sorrel, quiet as a lamb, beside 
Mrs. Joyce, who. was supporting her failing strength 
against the post, while she stared into the sunshine, 
indolently awaiting the sequel of the horse’s riderless 
arrival. 

“Land sakes ! if ye ain’t a sight toe behole !” was 
her mirthless comment, as Miss Penny, under the 
burden of the saddle and the baskets, sat herself down 
on the edge of the gulley that ran between the road and 
the fence. “I jest a been wonderin’ whether ye’d be 
cornin’ along, or if yo’ brains was busted out, side of 
the road. ” 

“And there I might have staid” said Miss Penny, in- 
dignantly, “for any trouble to you.” 

“Well, sho’ and sartain,” said Mrs. Joyce, with serene 
composure, “ there’d been a lumping of the doctor’s 
visit ; you could a had him by wholesale, I suppose. 

I been a-watchin’, and a-watchin’, which hit is about 
all I kin do, fur somebody to go after the doctor, fur 
that gal, she’s done tuk down suddin and speechless. ” 
This information Mrs. Joyce delivered with immense 
satisfaction. 

Miss Penny staggered up from her seat on the edge 
of the gulley, feeling as though she had heard the words 
in a dream. “ Marjorie ? ” said she. 

“ Hit’s a fact ! ” Mrs. Joyce declared, with increasing 
satisfaction. “ She never eat one mouthful fur break- 
fast, and all of a suddin, ’bout an hour ago, standin’ by 
the churn, she jest keeled right over, dead-like. I been 


174 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


here a-watchin’ fur you, ever since. Mr. Lankster — hit 
do 'pear like he’s lost what little gumption he ever did 
have. I tuk him half a bottle o’ Cousin ’Liza Hexin’s 
mixtur, but he wouldn’t let a drap down her ; hot water 
and mustard is all he knowed about.” 

Miss Penny turned abruptly and jerked open the gate, 
and as she hurried up the path, Mrs. Joyce called to her 
loudly : 

“ I say ! Miss Lankster ! He's jest cawntinually la- 
menting he ain’t give her to her ma’s rich kin up North ; 
and I sesso, too, if she’s got any rich kin. He’s about 
the porest chance hisself, ever I see. ’Thouten any 
dependence on good physic, how’s that gal goin’ to 
mend up ? I say ! Miss Lankster ! Who’s goin’ fur the 
doctor ? ” 

But Miss Penny was out of hearing. 


CHAPTER XXL 

MR. JOE WRITES A LETTER. 

In painful confusion of thought and feeling, Miss Pen- 
ny hastened to the room she and Marjorie occupied to- 
gether. The remembrance of the child’s speech the 
evening before — “ If I should die, be kind to Daddy 
Joe” — chilled her like a fearful prophecy, and the bitter, 
unbidden thought would arise, “ Wherefore should this 
young life be taken, and the other spared ? ” 

For Miss Penny’s intense affections had begun to 
wind themselves about Marjorie, so that her anxiety 
seemed to her a new, strange acquaintance, and yet an 
old familar friend ; a something dear and dread she had 
known already, in some previous state of existence, 
and that had waited all these years to oppress her with 
a keener force, a deeper significance. Vaguely she re- 
called that just such motherly yearning had possessed 
her— only in a less degree — when she attended upon 
the young stranger, lying ill in the cheerless tavern of 
her childhood. This remembrance flitted like a ghost 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


175 

through her brain, for she had long ago resigned Mor- 
rison Kenric to oblivion. 

One faint hope Miss Penny clung to, the hope that 
Mrs. Joyce might have exaggerated Marjorie's condi- 
tion ; but this hope vanished the moment she entered 
the room where Marjorie lay : the girl was in a stupor, 
and a burning fever consumed her. 

Mr. Lancaster was walking up and down the room, 
wringing his hands with cries and groans that became 
articulate speech the moment he caught sight of his 
niece. “ She is going to die ! She is going to die ! ” he 
wailed. “ It’s a visitation of the Lord ! It is my punish- 
ment ! I ought to have given her up to her mother’s 
kindred, but I couldn’t ! She was all that was left me 
of her mother, and her mother was my wife ; and the 
Lord took her away from me, and now He is going to 
take Marjorie ! Oh, Penthesilea, what shall I do ? ” 

“ Hush for Heaven’s sake, and go for the doctor,” 
said Miss Penny, not meaning to be harsh ; but she was 
frightened, for with all her devotion as nurse, she knew 
very little about illness. 

“You’ve got no feeling, Penthesilea,” said Uncle Joe, 
with sorrowful resentment. 

“ I’m obliged to have common-sense,” replied ]\fiss 
Penny. “ Tears and lamentations will do no good. 
Take the horse and ride for the doctor.” 

“And leave her?” Mr. Lancaster almost shrieked. 
“Oh, I can’t I can’t ! She might die, and I away. Send 
Joyce, send Mrs. Joyce. Oh, don’t ask me.” 

Miss Penny went out desperately, in search of Joyce, 
who she knew was in the fields, and out of hearing ; but 
as she came opposite her front door, she saw a man 
standing by the gate and listening with rapt attention to 
Mrs. Joyce, who held the sorrel by the bridle and eagerly 
detailed the particulars of Marjorie’s sudden illness, with 
comments on Mr. Lancaster’s stupidity in not giving the 
sufferer “ Cousin Liza Hexin’s mixtur.” For though it 
never done me no good, it mought a-holped her” said 
Almirey. 

Miss Penny rushed breathless upon these two, and 
recognized Memory Waits, who took off his hat and 
greeted her with solemn respect, as one under the visita- 
tion of Providence. 


1 7 6 PENNY LANCA S TER , PARMER . 

Oh, lam thankful to see you!” Miss Penny ex- 
claimed. “ For the love of Heaven, help us ! We need 
a doctor here, as quick as you can bring him. ” 

“ Mem’ry has got orders to find water to Hilton s 
Fork ; he told me so,” said Mrs. Joyce, with a sort of 
pessimistic exultation ; but Memory had already mount- 
ed Miss Penny’s horse. 

“ I don't need no saddle,” he said. “ That purty lit- 
tle thing ! I saw her at preachin’ last Sunday, and she 
looked like an angel out o’ Heaven. It is the hand o’ 
Providence, Miss Lankster. He sont me this way to 
do your bidding. By the blessin’ of the Lord, I’ll bring 
the doctor.” 

‘ ‘ Stay a moment,” said Miss Penny. “ You must 
bring some ice too. ” And she took from her pocket some 
of that dedicated money she had received for her vege- 
tables. Miss Penny was human, and even in this crisis, 
she felt a momentary pang at the certainty that not one 
cent of the proceeds of her garden would go to the bene- 
fit of the farm ; but she instantly, and with anger against 
herself, thrust aside all thought about expense, and went 
in to devote herself to Marjorie. 

In about an hour Memory Waits returned with the 
ice, and reported that the doctor would follow immedi- 
ately. “A bran new man, Miss Lancaster, what has 
just stuck out his shingle, and was a-settin’ in his office 
a-waitin’. He seemed mightily interested, and he told 
me to gallop ahead with the ice, and he’s a cornin’, fo' 
shortly. ” 

“ And like as not, he don’t know nothin’ when he 
gits here, them new doctors , ” said the comforting Almirey. 
“Mem’ry, ye got the gift o’ the Lord in tracin’ the water, 
and ye say Providence sont ye ; whyn’t ye test your 
power in healin’ o’ the sick? Mebbe the Lord has 
gifted ye with the powers o’ healin’ likewise. Ye air 
powerful pious enough.” 

But Memory shrank back with a shocked look on his 
averted face. ‘ ‘ I ain’t got no call ! no call ! ” he 
ejaculated faintly. 

“Ye don’t know what ye air got till ye have tried,” 
said Almirey agog for a miracle ; but the arrival of the 
doctor excited a new interest. 

Miss Penny, with a sinking heart, had expected a 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


young man to make experiment of his doubtful skill 
upon poor Marjorie ; but this doctor was a man of years. 
He had a portly figure and sandy hair that stood up 
straight from his forehead, and his keen gray eyes looked 
from under his beetling brows and smiled sadly upon 
her, as he extended his hand in greeting, and said, in 
the somewhat gruff voice she still remembered. 

“Well, Penny?” 

Miss Penny had never expected to be so glad to see 
Dr. Griffith again ; but it was for Marjorie's sake. * ‘ Oh, ” 
she said, ‘ ‘ I am sure you can save her ! ” 

But the Doctor shook his head gravely over the sick 

girl, 

“ If nursing can save her life, please God, she shall 
not die ! ” Miss Penny declared. 

“You are a good nurse,” said Dr. Griffith, with a grim 
smile. 

“I know how to obey orders,” Miss Penny returned, 
with deepening color, at which she raged against her- 
self and the Doctor equally. 

“Well,” said Dr. Griffith, “my orders are, in the first 
place, that you must not wear yourself out. It is likely 
to be a long case ; she is not a strong child ; I’ve had 
this little girl for a patient before now. But you and I, 
Penny, had a case as bad once ; we need not despair. ” 

When the Doctor was gone, Mr. Lancaster broke 
again into tears and lamentations. “It's a judgment, a 
judgment, sure, on my selfishness in keeping her out of 
the life that suits her better than this, ” he moaned. “ She 
ain't my kind ; and, Penthesilea, don't you think, may- 
be, I’d better let 'em know they can come and take her 
now 

“ No ! ” said Miss Penny. “ No, I don’t ! Send 'em 
word to come and take her off our hands to save us 
trouble ? ” 

“ That’s a fact ! ” said her uncle, with a sigh, and a 
look of infinite relief, that expressed itself in a wan, re- 
luctant smile. “Penthesilea, I'm bound to follow your 
advice. But,” he added, reflectively, “I reckon, may- 
be, I owe it to the Lord if she does get well, to make 
the sacrifice. ” And he sighed deeply. “She's her 
moher’s own child, and maybe, — maybe, her mother’s 
kin ought to have her. I haven’t been clear in my mind 

12 


x 78 PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 

how I ought to do, and sometimes it stirs my conscience 
that I ain’t right to keep her. But if the Lord spares 
her, I’ll give her up, and just go on staying with you, 
Penthesilea, and when I meet her mother on the other 
side, I can say I done my best.” 

“If I nurse her back to life,” Miss Penny declared, 
with vehement feeling, “ I’ll never give her up ! I’m sick 
of her mother’s kin, and I don’t want you without Mar- 
jorie. I wish you’d go and chop out weeds, and never 
say another word about giving Marjorie up.” 

“It’s coming on dark,” said Mr. Joe, in feeble protest ; 
“ but I’ll go out in the mornin’ and look around.” 

Miss Penny stifled a groan of impatience. 

Dr. Griffith came betimes the next morning, and he 
came again and again for many days, for Marjorie hov- 
ered long between life and death, with no one but Miss 
Penny to nurse her. 

The farm was left to Mr. Joyce, and the garden to Mr. 
Joe; for there was not a moment Miss Penny could 
spare to give thought to her acres. She did, indeed, 
look from the windows once, to see the dwarfish, spin- 
dling cotton stalks expanding their leaves in the summer 
sun, and the weeds choking the early promise of the 
beloved garden of her toil, and her heart rebelled at the 
bitterness of the renunciation she was forced to make ; 
but when she turned from the window and looked at 
Marjorie, she put aside this feeling as a thing unholy ; 
was not Marjorie worth more than many gardens? And 
it was not for the prosperity of her farm that she covered 
her face now, and prayed dumbly, but for the young 
life battling against the Angel of Death. She did not 
look upon field or garden again, until her patient was 
out of danger, and able herself to sit by the window. 

“ How everything has grown,” said Marjorie. “The 
cotton is white on the stalks. ” 

“Yes,” said Miss Penny, with a sigh she could not 
check; “grown and gone to seed.” 

Marjorie looked at her sadly, as she asked, “ How is 
the garden, Cousin ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Penny answered, trying to 
speak lightly ; “I don’t think about the garden.” 

Marjorie put out her hand and timidly patted Miss 
Penny’s, which had lost its brown tint in this long 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


179 

seclusion. “You’ve been so good to me,’’ she said, in 
her soft tremulous voice. “I'll never forget it.” 

“ Don’t — Don’t forget it, Marjorie ! ” cried Miss Penny, 
in a sudden storm of passion that swept her out of her 
habitual shyness, and surprised and startled herself — 
when it was over — far more than Marjorie. “ I’ve 
staked my all upon your life ; I never had anybody to 
love before ; I’ve won you back from death, and you 
belong to me. ” She was almost fierce in her intensity. 

“Yes; I belong to you,” murmured Marjorie, with 
closed eyes ; “and I will take faithful care of you.” 

Miss Penny smiled at the extravagance of such a 
fancy; but Marjorie presently gave proof that she meant 
what she said. 

“Did Daddy Joe sell the vegetables ? ” she asked anx- 
iously, with open eyes. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Penny. She knew that much about 
the garden. Mr. Joe, having discovered his inefficiency 
in the sick-room, had betaken himself to business with 
a superabundance of zeal, and a great lack of discretion. 
The hoeing of weeds did not suit his constitution, but 
he felt his competence to trade in vegetables, and every 
morning he mounted the sorrel and made for the town 
with whatever the weeds spared to Miss Penny’s for- 
gotten toil. The proceeds he expended in a variety of 
canned articles as delicacies for Marjorie, which she 
could not eat, and which he and Mrs. Joyce consumed : 
he needed, he said, to nourish his strength, in case he 
should be called upon to sit up with Marjorie, which Miss 
Penny would never have permitted. Mrs. Joyce’s rea- 
son for indulging in “ sto’ boughten victuals ” appar- 
ently was to test her digestion, and make occasion for 
an extra dose of medicine. 

“But nevermind about that, Marjorie,” Miss Penny 
added, after a struggle to put away the recollection of 
this extravagance. 

“Did he give you the money?” asked Marjorie, not 
heeding. 

“I never asked him for it, Marjorie. I wish you 
wouldn’t worry about it ; you are too weak. It will all 
come out right in time, now that you are well. That 
fever was the only real trouble , child, and we’ve got 


l8o PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER . 

through with that, bless God, and by His help, we'll 
get through with the rest. ” 

“ But,” said Marjorie, piteously, “we’ll have to man- 
age him, Cousin. My poor Daddy ! I think — I don’t 
know — but I’ve thought a long time that something 
troubles him.” And Marjorie sighed. 

“What should trouble him, pray? ” said Miss Penny, 
brusquely. “All is well enough with him , Marjorie.” 

“He never means any harm,” Marjorie said, sadly ; 
“ but — we can’t depend upon him. Only don't , don't 
ever let him know it. We’ll have to manage him.” 

“Very well ; we will manage him,” said Miss Penny, 
nothing loth. 

Marjorie’s artless words, her pleading tones and trem- 
ulous sighs, revealed, better than any explicit statement, 
how bravely this sensitive young heart had borne the 
burden of Mr. Joe Lancaster’s shortcomings. But Miss 
Penny had needed no revelation from Marjorie to make 
it clear that it would not be wise to leave her affairs any 
longer in her uncle’s hands; and by way of putting her 
relations with this slack-twisted, self-constituted agent 
on a safe and comfortable basis of restriction, she de- 
termined to ask him for a definite account of the sale of 
her vegetables. She seized the first opportunity that 
presented, which was after supper, when Marjorie had 
fallen asleep. 

She found her uncle seated at the improvised table 
where they ate their meals, writing by the dim and 
smoky light of a tin lamp. 

Miss Penny always went directly to the point. 
“Uncle Joe,” said she, “I want to know about the 
money you got for the vegetables ?” 

“ Money? ” repeated he, poising his pen in air, with 
one hand, and pushing up his spectacles with the other. 
“Why, Penthesilia? ” 

“Yes, money,'' Miss Penny insisted with annoyance. 
She was a strict accountant, and that blank in her ledger 
that should be filled by the financial history of her gar- 
den, fretted her; the money, she knew, was gone, and 
she knew how it had gone, but she hoped to be able to 
learn how much it amounted to. 

“Why, Penthesilea, you surely don’t begrudge what 


PENNY LA NCAS TER , PARMER. j g r 

I bought for Marjorie ? ” said Mr. Lancaster, with re- 
proachful surprise. 

“What did you get for Maijorie ? ” Miss Penny asked. 
“ I paid for what the doctor ordered, myself.” 

“Well — a few canned things,” said her uncle, reluct- 
antly. “Delicacies, you know.” 

“And tell you what, Miss Lankster,” broke in Mrs. 
Joyce, who was seated on the edge of the gallery, op- 
posite the frontdoor, “ sto’ bought victuals is costly, 
hit is ; ’pears like you can’t never get enough on ’em, 
and then hit allers requires pills — in my experience. ” 

“Well, what was the amount altogether ; that’s what 
1 want to know ? ” Miss Penny urged, ignoring Mrs. 
Joyce. 

“The land! Penthesilea, how could you expect me 
to keep account of trifles, and sickness in the house ? ” 
remonstrated Mr. Joe, with meek indignation. 

“For that very reason,” said Miss Penny. “ Sickness 
is expensive.” 

“ The bes' way is to be allers takin’ medicine, so's 
not to git sick,” remarked Mrs. Joyce. “ That’s what 
keeps me up, I’m that po’ly.” 

“So,” said Miss Penny, still ignoring Mrs. Joyce, 
‘‘you don’t know what the. sale of my vegetables 
amounted to ? ” 

“ No, Penthesilea, upon my soul I don’t ! ” replied Mr. 
Lancaster, with magnanimous frankness. “What dif- 
ference does it make ? Ain’t our interests all one ? ” 

“ No,” said Miss Penny, stoutly ; “ not in that sense. 
I can not have that sort of community of interest, and 
you may as well know it, Uncle Joe. ” 

“ Sartin sure,” said Mrs. Joyce, who had risen, and 
was standing in the doorway. “ Me and Joyce is bound 
to come in for our sheer in the profits.” 

“Mrs. Joyce,” said Miss Penny, severely, “I am 
talking to my uncle about my individual affairs ; when 
it comes to a discussion of your and Mr. Joyce’s busi- 
ness, I shan’t let him interfere, I promise you.” At 
which decided hint Mrs. Joyce took herself off, in high 
dudgeon, as Miss Penny meant she should; that is, 
Miss Penny meant she should take herself off, and for 
the dudgeon she did not care. 

“I know it’s been atrial, Penthesilea,” said her uncle. 


i $ 2 penny Lancaster . parmer. 

“ I didn’t expect to be a burden ; I thought I’d be a 
help ; and I have kept your name in the market against 
another season, and I’ve given you Marjorie. ” 

“Yes,” said Miss Penny, softening, “you have given 
me Marjorie ; let us say no more.” 

“Not but what,” continued Mr. Lancaster, huskily, 
“not but what I’m greatly troubled in mind, Penthesilea, 
as to the right — ” 

“Does Marjorie know about these kinsfolk of her 
mother ? ” Miss Penny interrupted, with a sudden, sharp 
fear at her heart. ‘ £ Does she hanker after them ? ” 

“Oh, no, no,” Mr. Lancaster replied, in an awe- 
stricken whisper. “ Marjorie don’t know — she don't 
know nothin i’.” 

“I’ll never give her up,” Miss Penny declared. “ I’ve 
earned her ; and I’ll give up my farm first.” 

“Penthesilea,” said her uncle, in a tone of alarm; 
“you wouldn’t make a slave of her ? ” 

“ No ; but I would make a slave of myself for her.” 

“ It is just as if she was your own flesh and blood ? ” 
said Mr. Joe under his breath. 

“ Yes,” answered Miss Penny. “It seems to me it’s 
her I’ve waited for all my life, more than this farm. ” 

“Maybe so, Penthesilea, ’’assented Mr. Joe, musingly. 
“The ways of Providence are queer.” And then he 
wiped his eyes, and blew his nose, and turned him to 
his writing again. 

He signed his name, folded his letter, and put it into 
a large white envelope, which he addressed with 
elaborate painstaking ; Miss Penny watching him the 
while, but from too great a distance to distinguish the 
words he wrote. 

“Uncle Joe,” said she, “are you writing to Marjorie’s 
kin about Marjorie? ” 

“No, no, Penthesilea,” Mr. Joe replied, slapping his 
hand guiltily over the envelope. “I give you my word 
I ain't. It may be my duty, but I ain’t never got my 
consent to do my duty that way by Marjorie ! I ain’t 
writing to Marjorie’s kin about her ; this here is a differ- 
ent matter. See, Penthesilea, I ain’t ungrateful. This 
spell o’ fever of Marjorie’s has made things tight for 
you, and winter coming on ; and I must be doing some- 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


^3 

thing or another to help along, and so — and so — you 
see, Penthesilea, I’m writing to a particular old friend 
oiyours, who’d be as willing as he is able to help you 
out, I don’t doubt. ” 

Thus unexpectedly was Miss Penny apprised of the 
fact that Morrison Kenric still lived. Many a time, 
since she bade farewell to him in the murky dawn on 
that mountain road, had her heart ached, for the assur- 
ance that the man she had saved from capture had es- 
caped the slaughter of the battlefield, the pestilence of 
the camp ; and now that she had this assurance at last, 
she was steeped to the lips in bitterness to learn that he 
lived to consign her to oblivion, counting as nothing 
the tremendous sacrifice she would have made to ensure 
his safety — for Miss Penny forgot that she did not tell 
Morrison Kenric the ground of her promise to marry 
Luke Rosser ; she could only feel keenly, resentfully, 
that her service and her peril had been accepted and 
she had been forgotten. He was living now, in ease 
and comfort ; what might have been his fate, but for 
her? 

“ Uncle Joe?” she cried, reaching the table at one 
bound. “ Give me that letter ! ” 

But Mr. Joe, though he quailed, still held on to the 
•envelope. “Now, Penthesilea,” said he, entreatingly, 
“don’t you be unreasonable. You can’t provide things 
comfortable, just yet for Marjorie, without some help, 
and so, I tell you, I’m writing to Morrison Kenric — ” 

“How dare you ! ” cried Miss Penny, fiercely, snatch- 
ing the letter and tearing it into bits. “I tell you, I 
will not have Morrison Kenric taxed for me or mine.” 

“ Taxed P Lord, Penthesilea,” said Mr. Joe, in un- 
affected amazement, “you don’t know he’s a rich 
banker, one of the foremost ? Ain’t you never heard 
from him? ” 

“No,” answered Miss Penny, with a stamp of her 
foot ; “ I know nothing about him ; I will have nothing 
whatever to do with him. And I tell you now, I tell you 
solemnly, so sure as ever you write to Morrison Kenric 
about me or my affairs, you may go shift for yourself, 
and youshan’t have Marjorie either ! ” 

“Well, you are a spirited one, Penthesilea,” said her 
uncle admiringly. “And if that’s your stand, I ain’t 


184 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


agoin’ against it. No, no ; the heft of responsibility is 
off my shoulders. But I did make sure you and him 
were friends/’ 

“That was a long time ago,” said Miss Penny, briefly. 
“ I’ll work my way out, and I’ll take care of Marjorie ; 
but don’t you interfere, please , Uncle Joe.” 

“I ain’t agoin’ to, Penthesilea,” Uncle Joe promised, 
with a meekness that smote his niece to the heart. She 
turned and kissed him. 

“ You’ve given me Marjorie,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXII. 
mr. Joyce’s harvest. 

When Miss Penny sat down to the work of squaring • 
accounts, she found the situation gloomy indeed. Her 
funds were very low, and it was hardly supposable that 
her Uncle Joe had any money, seeing that he had al- 
lowed her to supply all that Marjorie’s illness had called 
for, and had used up the income from the garden be- 
sides. Nevertheless, Miss Penny thought it might be 
well to ask him. 

“Haven’t you any money, Uncle Joe? ” said she. 

The question was plainly a vexatious one. Mr. Lan- 
caster shuffled and twisted, and cleared his throat twice 
or thrice, before he said, querulously, and without look- 
ing at his niece : 

“ Now, Penthesilea, do I seem the kind of man to 
have any money? Bad luck ain’t my fault; and you 
won’t let me write to him that owes you his life, may- 
be — ” 

“No, no. I’ll mortgage my entire possessions 
first. ” 

“I’ve no doubt you’ll manage,” said Gentleman Joe, 
cheerfully. “And when you get to making money, I’ll 
do the financiering. That’s more in my line than dig- 
ging weeds, or peddling vegetables. I just took to that, 
so as to save you from worrying, and to leave you free 
to look after Marjorie. But, I’d rather manage your 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 185 

money affairs, your investments, and such ; that’s my 
line.” 

Miss Penny turned away in despair of her uncle Joe, 
and Mr. Lancaster turned away in suspicion of his niece, 
Penthesilea. She had grown grasping, that was clear to 
his mind, and she was aiming to appropriate the little 
he had laid by. It had cost him a great struggle to leave 
his two or three hundred dollars untouched so long. 
He had put it in a bank in Atlanta ; but Penthesilea was 
so — irrepressible, that was what she was : and she 
would certainly discover it and force him to give it to 
her, unless he provided against such violence ; and his 
best way, he thought, was to go to Atlanta, and spend it 
at once, for the benefit of himself and Marjorie. 

So, the next morning, Gentleman Joe departed, with- 
out further explanation than that he was going on busi- 
ness. 

Miss Penny, in considerable uneasiness, questioned 
Marjorie, but Marjorie did not know. 

While Mr. Lancaster was absent, Dr. Griffith called, 
not professionally, evidently, for he had taken unusual 
pains with his dress, but Miss Penny received him in 
working attire. 

“ I’m taking up your time,” said the Doctor ; but he 
pulled off his gloves, and sat down, as if he meant to 
stay. 

“I’m ready for business always,” said Miss Penny. 
“I suppose you came to talk about your bill ? ” 

“ Oh, Penny ! ” 

“ Well / want to talk about it,” returned Miss Penny. 

“ Hang the bill ; ” said the Doctor. “Joe Lancaster’s 
responsibility, any way. I came to talk to you. To 
give you advice.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Miss Penny. 

“I suppose you don’t want it, but — ” here followed 
one of his long pauses — “ You’ve shouldered a bigger 
burden than you can carry,” he enunciated, at last. 

“ If you mean Marjorie — ” 

“No ; I don’t mean Marjorie. I mean — everything.” 
The Doctor sighed, and Miss Penny echoed the sigh ; 
she had no reply ready. 

“ If you keep that fellow, Joyce, and his wife, you’ll 
be always behind,” resumed the Doctor. “ He is an 


1 86 PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 

obstinate pig, and his wife swallows too much physic 
to be any earthly account.” 

“ I don’t mean to keep them ! ” Miss Penny declared 
vigorously. “What I need is” — but she paused in 
sudden embarrassment at finding herself about to con- 
fide her plans to Dr. Griffith. 

“What you need is somebody to take care of you,” 
said the Doctor, gravely. 

“No, I don’t ! ’ ’Misu Penny declared, rising precipi- 
tately. “Oh, no!” 

The Doctor sighed. “I’ve known you such a long 
time,” he said. 

‘ ‘ Then you ought to know — ” 

“That’s why I call you Penny,” he went on, with 
great earnestness. “An old friend, Penny — may have 
the privilege of speaking plainly.” 

“Well, yes,” said Miss Penny, angry with herself that 
his words and his manner should so much embarrass 
her. 

“Joe Lancaster has some money,” the Doctor contin- 
ued. “Laid by in bank. I don’t know how much. 
But he ought not to let you bear all the burden of this 
child of his.” 

“Of course,” said Miss Penny, with a proud reserve, 
“ He has gone to Atlanta to see about his money.” 

The Doctor looked at her, a little puzzled. He did 
not tell Miss Penny that Gentleman Joe had borrowed 
money of him to go to Atlanta, nor did he ever tell her 
— for the money was never repaid. He picked up his 
buck skin gloves and began drawing them back and 
forth through his hands, frowning ; yet, though he re- 
mained long silent, it was evident that he had more to 
say. 

Miss Penny wished he would go. In her restlessness, 
she went to the chimney-shelf, and began to set her 
crockery in order. 

“Iam not a rich man,” the Doctor informed her, 
from across the room. 

Miss Penny thought in the long pause he made, that 
he was surely going to say something about the bill. 

“Neither am I poor,” the Doctor made his second 
announcement. “ I could take good care of you, 
Penny.” And before Miss. Penny could take the sense 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. j g 7 

of his words, he had risen, and was holding both her 
hands. “ I have known you a long time, and I have 
always loved you.” 

He had said this to Miss Penny once before, and she 
remembered, with wondering self-condemnation, that 
she had been incredulous, and violently indignant. She 
was not incredulous now, nor indignant ; but she was 
greatly troubled. “ I wish you wouldn't,” she faltered. 

“ Is it no use ? ” he asked. 

“None in the world,” she answered, sadly. 

For a moment he did not speak ; then he whispered, 
huskily, as he dropped her hands : 

“It shan't make me less your friend, Penny.” 

Miss Penny stood looking after him as he walked 
down the pathway to the gate, and the tears rose in her 
eyes. “Oh, dear, dear me!” she sighed, “I am 
nearly forty years old. That ever such a thing should 
happen to me.” 

And Dr. Griffith, as he rode away, muttered to him- 
self : 

“ She hasn't forgotten the Yankee yet. Confound 
him ! ” 

But Miss Penny presently had another visitor, who 
crowded Dr. Griffith quite out of her thoughts — for the 
time. She had gone into the garden, and was measur- 
ing off the space destined for her choice cabbage plants, 
when Memory Waits called to her, from over the 
fence : 

“Mornin', Miss Lankster? The leetle one gettin' 
strong yit ? ” 

Miss Penny felt very grateful to the young fellow 
who had been a friend in need, and she turned aside 
from work quite willingly to speak with him. ‘ ‘ Marjorie 
you mean?” said she. “Oh, yes; she is growing 
stronger every day. ” 

Memory blushed and took off his hat a second time. 
“I brought her a bunch o' pa'tridges, ” said he, handing 
the birds over the fence. “Them as has been ailin’ 
and air mendin' likes a difference in their victuals.” 

“ You are very thoughtful,” said Miss Penny, without 
the slightest suspicion that Memory could cherish any 
sentiment for such a child. “Won't you carry them 
in? I know she’ll be mightily pleased.” 


1 88 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


“I ain't got time,” stammered Memory, coloring. 
“ I want to talk to you, Miss Lankster, on business. I 
want to come and live with you. ” 

“Live with me ? ” repeated Miss Penny, with secret 
indignation. Had she set up a farm to serve as an 
asylum for vagrants? “ I've no place for you," said 
she, coldly. 

Memory's countenance fell. “ I reckon there mought 
be some work I could do," he sighed. “ I’d like to 
learn farming." 

“I thought you had a calling?" said Miss Penny, 
still coldly. 

“I’d like a regular business,” he replied, coloring. 

“There is plenty to do," said Miss Penny, in a tone 
that was not encouraging ; " but I want somebody to 
obey my orders." 

“Try me," urged Memory. 

Miss Penny, under pressure of work, began to feel dis- 
posed to try him. “When can you come? " she asked. 

“ Now,” said Memory. 

This promptness pleased the woman of business, and 
after a little discussion, Memory, the Gifted, became 
her hireling, to the intense disgust of Mrs. Joyce. 

‘ * Mem'ry Waits has a gift o’ the Lord, " said she ; ‘ ‘ and 
he has tuk to work." 

“'Twon't last," her husband prophesied, with sour 
brevity. 

A few days later, Gentleman Joe returned. He had 
a new suit of clothes, a new hat, and new boots, all of 
the best make, and he brought with him a large trunk. 
What to think, Miss Penny did not know : was her 
uncle Joe very rich ; or — appalling fear ! — had he made 
these extravagant purchases expecting her to pay for 
them ? 

“You see, Penthesilea, ” said he, with smiling self- 
approval, “in my opinion saving amounts to waste, 
when the time comes for spending. I never was close 
in my life, and I've laid out the little money I had 
mostly in things needful for me and for Marjorie, so as 
we won't be any expense to you for clothes. And I’ve 
brought you a present too, Penthesilea ; I didn't forget 
you." 

When the trunk was opened, he presented his niece 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


189 

with a gorgeous red and blue silk handkerchief, and a 
pair of gilt bracelets. 

Miss Penny had a struggle to thank him, and she 
could not resist saying, “You should not have wasted 
your money on such things.” 

Gentleman Joe turned to Marjorie who stood by with 
an anxious, yet smiling face. “I reckon you’ll like 
what I’ve brought you , Marjorie,” said he, as he care- 
fully removed the paper from a well-wrapped package, 
and displayed a sky-blue silk. “Your mother used to 
have a dress like that;” said he, with appealing eyes 
searching Marjorie s face for the pleasure he hoped to 
give. 

“And what on earth can the child do with that! ” 
exclaimed Miss Penny, sharply. “I hope in Heaven 
you brought her some flannels ?” 

“Flannels?” repeated Mr. Lancaster blankly. “Ain’t 
she got flannels ? ” 

“It is beautiful ! It is beautiful ! ’’said Marjorie, 
quickly, with rapturous admiration. “My dear, dear 
Daddy. ” And she laid her soft white cheek against his, 
with a mute caress. 

“Ah, wait till you see all I’ve brought you!” said 
Gentleman Joe ; and he dived into the trunk, drawing 
out sashes, scarfs, ribbons, silk stockings, a hat and 
feathers — every variety of inappropriate finery, in short, 
that Mrs. Braids shop could furnish forth. And Mar- 
jorie kept repeating in soft and rapturous tones, “ Oh, 
beautiful ! Beautiful ! ” to Miss Penny’s infinite vexa- 
tion and disgust. She had rejoiced in Marjorie as a 
girl of sense, and behold, Marjorie had a frivolous taste 
for finery. 

“ I cannot possibly see the use of such things for a 
girl in Marjorie’s position,” said Miss Penny, with irre- 
pressible, impatient scorn. 

“You ain’t expectin’ to make a farm-hand of Mar- 
jorie?” retorted her uncle, with angry defiance. “I 
hear you say you don’t mean to live this way forever, 
and these things are all best quality ; they’ll last a life- 
time. Her mother’s people were used to the best ; why 
shouldn’t Marjorie like such things ? And why shouldn’t 
she wear them ? ” 

“Oh. if you can afford it ! ” said Miss Penny, angry 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

as he. “But I do wish you had brought her something 
useful. ” 

“I don’t mind about useful things/’ Marjorie made 
haste to say. “I like everything you’ve brought me, 
dear Daddy, dear Daddy ; they’ll last me a life-time. 
You need never buy me anything more.” 

“It was the last I had, Marjorie, the last” said Daddy 
Joe, tremulously, as he took the child in his arms and 
kissed her. “And I spent it all on you — mostly.” 

Marjorie stroked his hair and patted his cheek, and 
the two seemed very happy. 

The sight of this complete satisfaction in each other, 
was, under the circumstances, too much for Miss Penny. 
She left them, and went to her own room, where she 
sat down in great perturbation. Surely her uncle Joe 
was accountable to no one for the way in which he 
spent his money — indeed, he could never have told 
what became of it all — but Marjorie! Marjorie was a 
disappointment : better would it be that she should go 
to her mother’s friends ; and the sooner, the better. 

The door opened softly, and Marjorie came in. Her 
face was pale, save for the two bright spots that burned 
in each cheek, as if the fever had come again. Miss 
Penny looked at her, but did not speak. 

“ It is a pity, Cousin ! It is a pity ! ” said Marjorie. 

“ What is a pity ?” said Miss Penny, with cold dis- 
pleasure. “ That here you cannot display that useless, 
extravagant frippery ? ” 

“I had to be glad,” said Marjorie, with no shadow of 
resentment or reproach. “ It would have grieved him 
so if I had not been glad. And, Oh, I love him so ! My 
poor old, shiftless, useless Daddy — I love him so ! ” 
She covered her face with her hands, and the tears 
dropped through her fingers. 

Her words were balm to Miss Penny’s heart, though 
they smote her conscience. Marjorie might be a surprise, 
but she was no disappointment, after all, and her 
mother’s kindred should never possess her ; but as for 
herself — 

“ I am a mean contemptible\)ld flint ! ” she said aloud. 

“Ah, no! no ! ” said Marjorie, smiling through her 
tears. “But you know you don’t believe in me as he 
does ; I am not your child.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


I 9 I 

Miss Penny sighed. “ No,” she said to herself, “she 
is not my child; but I can live for her as if she were my 
child, and her mother’s kindred could do no more.” 

After all. Miss Penny, as she now perceived, was 
none the worse for her uncle’s senseless extravagance ; 
he had but spent his own money, and she had still her 
own courage and energy to sustain her, and Marjorie to 
live for ! The obnoxious cotton crop could be relied 
upon to bring in some returns, and Memory Waits 
carried out her plans so thoroughly that she could now 
look forward to some profit from her turnips and cab- 
bages. Her greatest concern now, was to rid herself of 
Joyce and his wife, to which end circumstances were 
shaping themselves in Miss Penny’s favor. Memory 
Waits was destined to be, indirectly, the instrument of her 
deliverance ; for as Memory rose in her estimation, his 
prestige with the Joyces declined. Mrs. Joyce, in fact, 
had held the young man cheap from the day he slighted 
his ‘ ‘ gift ” to undertake regular work. 

“A man what kin turn his back on a callin’ o’ the 
Lord, kin do anything tha’ts mean, ” she declared. ‘ ‘ And 
thar ain’t no tellin’ what Memr’y mought a come to, sich 
as healin’ of the sick by prah and fastin’ ; but shucks ! 
talk about him fastin’ ! He’ll eat mo’ any day, than 
the mizry in my side’ll give me leave to cook.” 

“Women’s motions is allers shiftly,” said Joyce, orac- 
ularly. “You wait ontil the stress of the cotton crop is 
over,” Mr. Joyce, feeling a personal interest in the cotton 
to which he had given his almost exclusive attention, 
was busy gathering it in, by the help of a laborer he 
had hired, with Miss Penny's promise to pay. “Miss 
Lankster ’ll find out by that time, that Mem’ry he ain’t 
got no knowledge of lan’ and craps ; all the sense he’s 
got, is ’bout the water courses.” 

“And that belonged to the Lord,” said Almirey ; 
“and the Lord in vengeance may take it away, /dunno 
how come Mem’ry ain't no sense in lan’ and craps ; he 
b’longs to them Waitses over in Henery County. They 
was stiddy farmers, I allers hear tell. ” 

“ You ain’t got no call to go upholdin’ of Memory 
Waits, as I kin see,” said Joyce, irritably. 

“ I ain’t a upholdin’ of him,” retorted Almirey ; “but 
facs is facs, Them Waitses, give ’em a chance, was 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


192 

allers scrougin’, and this here one is agoin’ to scrouge 
you, if you don’t scrouge him. ” 

“ Shucks ! ” said Joyce, “He ain’t goin’ to have no 
call to stay, after the cotton is off the land. ” 

When the cotton was hauled away, however, to a 
neighbor’s gin, and it was seen that Miss Penny showed 
no disposition to be rid of the interloper, Mr. Joyce 
thought it time to remonstrate. For he now saw that 
Miss Penny reinforced by Memory Waits, would prove 
too many for him. Nevertheless, he blindly believed 
himself to be indispensable, so he said, with an insolent 
swagger, that “ Mem’ry must go, if Miss Lankster ex- 
pected to hold on to Reuben Joyce.” 

“ I don’t expect to hold on to you,” Miss Penny an- 
swered, with blunt decision. “ I expect you to go.” 

This announcement so astounded and infuriated Joyce, 
that had she been a man he would have struck her. 

“ Expect me to go ? ” he shouted ; “ Why Miss Lank- 
ster, how the devil kin you manage ’thout me? ” 

“ I mean to be mistress of my own farm, and master, 
too,” Miss Penny, informed him. 

“Now, Miss Lankster,” said Joyce, cooling down 
to an air of indulgent superiority, “ you wouldn’t had a 
pound o’ cotton, ’cept for me and hit’s the only crap 
what is bringing you money.’ 

“I know it!” said Miss Penny, promptly; “about 
forty dollars, net, a bale ; and the whole of it won’t 
amount to your year’s wages. ” 

“Then I kin tell you this, Miss Lankster,” said Joyce, 
menacingly, “if my wages ain’t paid to the day, and 
prompt , I’ll have the law of ye. And quit here I don’t, 
me and my wife, ontel they is paid ; I got the rights of 
a lien on that crop, I reckon, and I’ll turn ye out befo’ 
ever I’ll be cheated by a female woman.” 

Miss Penny was angry enough to wish herself a man, 
but she could not let Joyce have the satisfaction of see- 
ing this. 

“It is now two months before the time is out,” said 
she calmly ; “ but your wages for the entire year shall 
be paid you, the minute I see you ready to start ; and 
the sooner, the better.” 

Joyce went out from her presence utterly crestfallen ; 
but after talking the situation over with Almirey, he de- 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. ^3 

cided to accept the present of the two months. Man 
and wife “ allowed they had both on ’em allers hank- 
ered to go to furrin parts, and a ranch in Texis mought 
be a long sight easier to live by, than another woman’s 
farm, in Georgy.” 

Miss Penny was happier, the day she saw them de- 
part, than she had been any day for a year past ; she was 
her own mistress once more. 

“ But you ain’t got a cook, ” said Mr. Lancaster, dole- 
fully. “And, surely, Penthesilea, you ain’t goin’ to put 
cooking on Marjorie ? ” 

“Don’t be a fool, Uncle Joe,” replied Miss Penny. 
“ I’ve done most of the cooking myself, any way.” 

“ I can get you a cook willin’ to work, ” said Mem’ry 
Waits. “ And don’t you be no ways onsettled, Miss 
Lankaster ; I can find you labor to hire. Ther wasn’t 
any too many round here willin’ to set in with Reub 
Joyce, and that’s a fac’. He were deemed onlucky.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MISS PENNY RECEIVES A SHOCK. 

When Miss Penny Lancaster’s first year at farming 
closed, she found herself in debt, and almost moneyless ; 
but she had learned much, and she was not one 
to be discouraged. Moreover, her establishment was 
now on a satisfactory footing. Memory Waits did hom- 
age to her authority, and she had a cook in her kitchen 
who was, in every way, an improvement upon Mrs. 
Joyce. True, her Uncle Joe did not fail to give that 
discouragement which the masculine mind is fain to 
bestow upon female enterprise ; but Marjorie made 
amends. With the bracing winter weather, the girl grew 
strong, and plump, and blooming, and from this time 
began to manifest an eager, intelligent interest in the 
affairs of the farm that made her ever and ever dearer 
to Miss Penny’s heart. 

. The garden yielded a handsome profit this second 


PENNY LANCASTER , , FARMER . 


*94 

year ; and besides vegetables, Miss Penny sold wheat, 
oats, millet-hay, crab-grass-hay, butter and milk, so 
that it might now be said she began to enjoy the first 
fruits of her labors. 

At the instance of her Uncle Joe, who, through dint 
of the judicious restraint exercised over him by herself 
and Marjorie, had become “something between a 
hindrance and a help/’ Miss Penny bought two hives of 
Italian bees, and planted a number of scuppernong 
vines. These investments gave busy-idle Mr. Joe Lan- 
caster wholesome employment, and in due time yielded 
a profitable return. 

But Miss Penny did not reach prosperity at one bound. 
Only by slow degrees, with patient industry and self- 
denial, and most careful management, did she at last 
pay off her indebtedness, and find herself able to make 
those improvements she deemed desirable. 

The first purchase she made, when she began to see 
her way clear of debt, was a pony, that Marjorie might 
ride to school, a mile and a half distant. Yet Marjorie 
still contrived to find time to attend to the poultry, the 
flowers, and other little matters which she had taken 
under her exclusive jurisdiction. 

In three years’ time, Miss Penny was able to build a 
smoke-house and cure her own bacon ; her barn at last 
received its coat of red paint, and she owned the long- 
coveted red wagon and a sturdy team. She now planted 
a peach-orchard and a vineyard, each of which pro- 
duced, after a few years, a valuable harvest. Her garden 
paid her well, after the fourth year, and she not only 
saved meat for her own consumption, but often sold a 
well-fattened pig to the butcher, and now and then a 
beef; and every pound of Miss Lancaster’s beef was be- 
spoken before it was put upon the market. She had 
earned distinction, and whatever she had to sell com- 
manded a ready price. 

Thus every year saw Miss Penny’s enterprise steadily 
advancing towards the ideal farm of her youthful aspira- 
tions, and every year beheld Miss Penny happier, 
plumper, browner than before. 

It cannot be claimed, of course, that in all these years 
she met with no discouragements, had no bad luck, as 
the farmers phrased jt ; that her whe^t never rusted, that 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


*95 

her oats never took the blight, that her cattle never went 
lame, or that all her crops came to their full perfection, 
Season after season. She had her losses and mischances, 
but her opportunity she was always quick to seize. 

It is nq discredit to Miss Penny to admit that the law 
of environment operated largely in her favor ; for during 
these years of her sturdy struggle, Briarville had grown 
and prospered, and the success of the woman farmer 
was due, in some measure, to the summer-boarder from 
the Southern coast, and the winter health-seeker from 
the rigorous North, who, within these few years, took 
this picturesque, primitive little hill-town by storm : so 
that when Miss Penny had been six years or so the 
owner of her farm, Briarville had dotted all the nearer 
hill-sides with bow-windowed cottages, and Miss 
Penny’s own modest domain had completely changed 
its bare and bloomless aspect. Garden, orchards, 
fields, pasture and woodland confessed the hand of 
thrift. The subdued murmur of bees in the air, the low 
of well-fed kine, the call of chanticleer, the sharp cry of 
Guinea hens, the squall of the pea-fowl, mingling with 
other voices of the poultry-yard, made music in Miss 
Penny’s ears, and she counted herself a happy woman. 
For her hands and her heart were full; she had her farm 
in its perfection, and she had Marjorie; and Marjorie 
was now in her perfection ; a slim, pretty creature 
of nineteen, brown-eyed, brown-haired, and brown- 
skinned too, but with the bloom of youth and health, 
and happiness. 

Of all the sounds that swelled and mingled around 
that busy domain, Miss Penny loved best the voice of 
Marjorie, coming and going about the house, busy 
among the poultry, the bees, the flowers. Of all the 
dear delights in her perfected farm that Miss Penny’s 
ardent imagination had pictured, this fair young girl, 
the light of her eyes, the joy of her heart, was the one 
great blessing she had never dreamed of, the God-given 
feature, without which the farm and all its belongings 
would have been little more than a mere means of liveli- 
hood. It was Marjorie who trained the vines about the 
porch ; it was Marjorie who planted and tended those 
masses of gorgeous and delicate bloom that made gay 
the borders leading to the gate, and the beds along the 


! 9 (5 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 

bit of lawn at the side of the house away from the 
garden. Miss Penny’s yearning vision of “the wonder 
that would be ” in the way of lilacs and guelder roses, 
holly-hocks and prince’s-feather, jagged pinks and 
flaunting peonies adorning her doorway, had come to 
pass, and more besides. No “ unprofitably gay” 
flower-garden w’as this, for Marjorie sent her bouquets 
to town, and made her own pocket-money from the 
sale of her exquisite geraniums and fuschias, fragrant 
heliotrope and mignonette and spicy carnations. 

It grew to be the fashion to ride out to this model 
farm, and strangers often stopped to admire Marjorie’s 
little garden and the uniquely pretty gardener, who 
thought their eyes took note only of her plants. For to 
herself, to Miss Penny, to her Daddy Joe, Marjorie was 
still a child ; to Memory Waits she had grown to be a 
sort of wonder, a creature of a different order from any 
others that he knew, and she made him afraid. 

Memory had become a great, bioad-shouldered, vig- 
orous young fellow of some twenty-five years now, 
good to look upon, sober, steady and industrious. He 
had saved money, — for he had no one dependent upon 
him, and he might have bought land of his own ; but 
he manifested no disposition to leave Miss Penny, and 
it began to be whispered that Memory, with one eye on 
Marjorie, and one eye on the thriving farm, looked for- 
ward to a permanent partnership. 

But these whispers never reached Miss Penny’s ears ; 
she kept her faith in Memory Waits unshaken, and 
she believed Marjorie to be as inalienably her own 
as the farm. For her she had forgotten that old yearn- 
ing to meet her sisters once more ; she had attained 
prosperity, but the intention to renew those long dis- 
used ties of kindred had perished utterly out of her 
thoughts ; she needed them no longer ; Marjorie suf- 
ficed. 

Poor old Gentleman Joe had always been more or 
less of a drawback, but Miss Penny forgave him every- 
thing for Marjorie’s sweet sake ; whatever vexations he 
caused her, she never forgot that he had brought her 
the sunshine of her life. He sat all day in shady places, 
now fiddling his favorite tunes in a feeble, half-hearted 
way, sometimes visited by a spasmodic energy, when 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. ^7 

he would, work great damage in the garden, or among 
the . fruit-trees, or excite wild disturbance among the 
setting turkeys, for what purpose Marjorie, wise in poul- 
try lore, never could determine. Sometimes he went 
into town and lounged around the court-house and 
stores, but Briarville was an alien place to him ; he never 
felt at home either among the residents or the strangers, 
and he was always glad to get back to his corner of the 
porch and scrape on his fiddle, the sound of which no 
longer vexed Miss Penny : she heard it now with some- 
thing of the old delight her childhood felt in the accom- 
plishments of her Uncle Joe, and she rejoiced that he 
found pleasure in this old companion of his vacant 
hours. 

But despite the solace of music, Gentleman Joe was 
subject to fits of melancholy, when he would lament 
tearfully, to his niece : 

“ I'm a kind of failure, Penthesilea ; I don’t amount 
to anything ; but I’ve give you Marjorie, which I ought 
to have sent her to her mother’s kin. ” 

“Marjorie could not possibly be better off than she 
is,” Miss Penny would declare, with a decision that was 
almost fierce, but that yet seemed to carry some sort of 
comfort to Mr. Lancaster’s uneasy mind. 

“Do you think so, Penthesilea?” he would say, with 
a tremulous smile. “Well, I ain’t so clear as to my 
right ; but some day I’ll ask Malcolm Griffith.” 

To which Miss Penny invariably retorted : 

“Nonsense ! How should Dr. Griffith know?” 

And Mr. Lancaster never did ask him, though Dr. 
Griffith often came to visit the thriving farm. For 
through all these years the Doctor remained Miss 
Penny’s staunch friend. 

Nor was he her only friend in Briarville. Miss Penny 
in conquering fortune had conquered the respect of a 
prejudiced community. People had ceased to laugh at 
her, now that she no longer rode on a man’s saddle to 
peddle a few vegetables. Though she drove into town 
in her market cart whenever it suited her convenience 
to do so, she had a neat little rockaway for Sundays, 
an evidence of prosperity that was indisputable, — and 
irresistible. 

And so, Miss Penny, having attained her hopes after 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


198 

nearly seven years of hard work and brave economy, 
enjoyed her well-earned comfort in serene content, 
nor dreamed of change, other than seasons wrought 

In this comfortable frame of mind she was walking 
down the main street of Briarville, one June morning, 
intent upon some business connected with her farm. 
This street had undergone great modifications since 
Miss Penny first knew it ; in the first place, it was no 
longer, by name, a street ; it called itself an avenue, and 
instead of the one unpretending tavern and two or three 
primitive shops, there were two hotels, large and showy, 
a bank, an ice-cream saloon, and a pleasure-garden ; 
the little shops too, were “stores ” no longer, but “em- 
poriums’’ with plate-glass windows full of gauds for 
which Miss Penny had no use, but in which she was 
always ready to indulge Marjorie — as if she might 
grapple a young girl to her side forever with yards of 
ribbon, and keep her content with a painted fan ! 

A band was playing in the balcony of the more am- 
bitious of the two hotels, and carriages of all styles, 
phaetons, wagonettes, parties on horseback, flashed 
back and forth among the ox-carts and spike-teamed 
wagons, for the ‘ ‘ season ” had begun early this year, 
and Miss Penny, as she was crossing the street was 
nearly run over by a pair of spirited horses attached to 
an open carriage. 

The driver drew rein in front of a drug-store that pa- 
raded an aquarium and a showy soda-fountain, and 
Miss Penny, as she landed on the curbstone with a 
bound, heard a little cry of alarm, which came from the 
sole occupant of the carriage, a young woman, past the 
early grace of girlhood, indeed, but in the full bloom of 
her splendid beauty. 

Usually the fine folk that came to Briarville had small 
attraction for Miss Penny’s eyes, but this fair creature 
fascinated her gaze, and she stood staring with open 
mouth and panting breath, hardly conscious where she 
was. 

The beautiful, richly dressed brunette was evidently 
accustomed to such homage, for she manifested no em- 
barrassment, but only smiled, and said, with a gracious 
condescension : 


PRNNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


199 

“ My good woman, pray be careful ; you might have 
been seriously hurt.” 

“ Who are you — to call me ‘good woman ’ ? ” said 
Miss Penny, with brusque resentment ; then, turning 
suddenly, she went on down the street with an un- 
steady step ; it was no slight shock that she had re- 
ceived. 

The lady in the carriage drew herself up haughtily 
and turned her eyes away to the distant hills ; but pres- 
ently glancing again at Miss Penny, she leaned for- 
ward, and asked the driver, a negro lad dressed with 
some pretensions to livery, a question that made him 
reel on his seat with laughter. 

4 1 Lawd, no, ma’am ! ” he answered, recovering his 
dignity. “She ain’t drunk. Why, she’s Miss Penny 
Lancaster, the level-headedest somebody in these yer 
parts. ” 

“ Oh ! ” said the lady, and colored. 

“ Hit’s a name you’re boun’ter hear, ef you stay in 
Briarville so long’s a day,” the driver proceeded to in- 
form her. “Yonder’s Dr. Griffith stoppin’ her now. 
Dr. Griffith sets a heap o’ sto’ by Miss Lancaster; makes 
all his sick folks buy their milk an’ aiggs to her farm.” 

“I remember, now,” said the lady. “It was the 
Doctor who told us of her.” 

Miss Penny, with her ideas all astray, had forgotten 
her errand, and was wandering past her destination 
when she met the Doctor. She was about to pass him 
unrecognized, but he stopped her with the remark : 

“You are the very person I want to see ; got some 
business with you.” 

The magical word “business,” brought Miss Penny’s 
wool-gathering wits to order ; but before she could 
make reply the Doctor spoke again : 

“ What’s the matter with you ? You don’t look like 
yourself this morning.” 

“ I’ve had a — shock,” said Miss Penny slowly, with 
her hand to her head. “ I was near being run over 
just now.” 

“ I thought you were always too wide awake 

“ Let us talk about that business ! ” Miss Penny in- 
terrupted. 

“ This is it,” said the Doctor, drawing her aside, 
“ There is a Miss Fish — an elderly lady — at the hotel. 


200 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


who brings me a letter of introduction from a brother 
physician in Savannah. Miss Fish has with her a young 
relative who is commended to my care. A fine young 
fellow. I’ve taken a fancy to him, though I’ve seen 
him but once.” 

“And you want some specially fresh milk and eggs 
for him?” Miss Penny suggested. “You shall have 
'em. ” 

“I want more than that,” said the doctor. “ He isn't 
regularly an invalid, you understand. But he is an 
only child. That makes his case important. What he 
most needs is — a judicious watchfulness.” 

“Where is his mother? ” Miss Penny asked, not in 
the least divining the Doctors drift. 

‘ ‘ His mother died some years ago. Pulmonary trouble. 
That’s the ground of anxiety in his case. He has been 
all winter with friends in Florida, and he has spent the 
spring in Savannah. The doctors there recommended 
him to this climate ; but a hotel isn’t the best place for 
him, and these boarding-houses are not much better. 
He ought to rusticate. That’s my opinion. Though 
I’ve seen him but a moment. Now I want to put him 
with you.” 

“Goodness, gracious, me!” exclaimed Miss Penny, 
with unaccustomed remembrance of her unruly brothers 
in the long-forgotten past. “Boys are such a worry. 
It’s too tremendous a responsibility.” 

The Doctor laughed. “ This is a boy of twenty-two 
or three,” he said. 

“ O — h ! ” said Miss Penny. But she shook her head. 

“Now do consider it,” urged the Doctor. “Quiet, 
good food, good air — these he needs. And you have 
plenty of room.” 

“Yes,” sighed Miss Penny. “ Mine is a bigger house 
than I wanted ; but — I was thinking of my sisters when 
I bought it.” She paused, conscience-smitten, remem- 
bering how seldom she had thought of her sisters in the 
last seven years. 

“Well — they are not likely to hunt you up,” the 
Doctor declared, bluntly. 

“I don’t — know,” said Miss Penny, musingly. 
“ Strange things happen sometimes.” And again she 
sighed. 


PENNY LANCASTER. FARMER. 


201 


“They aren’t likely to hunt you up,” the Doctor 
insisted. “ Take my word for it. Come, now, Miss 
Penny, no need to be offended. I want you to say 
you’ll take my young friend to board.” And he colored 
guiltily, knowing that to have a patient domiciled under 
Miss Penny’s roof would afford an admirable excuse 
for frequent visits to the farm, which of course implied 
the opportunity to see the farm’s mistress oftener than 
usual. 

“But I’m a farmer,” Miss Penny objected, serenely 
unconscious of the advantage the Doctor hoped to reap. 
“I don’t keep a boarding-house.” 

“Well, fix up a room. He is able to pay well for 
everything. Keeps his own horses wherever he goes. 
Suppose you come with me now, and see Miss Fish? ” 

“What is his name?” Miss Penny asked, as she 
walked on with the Doctor, wondering why she lacked 
energy to say “no” at once to his proposition. 

“ His name ? ’’repeated Dr. Griffith, with a puzzled 
frown. “Odd! but it wasn't mentioned in the note 
of introduction. I suppose it’s the same name Oh, 
yes ; Fish, to be sure ! I remember now, Miss Fish 
introduced him as her nephew. And there’s another 
lady in the party, Miss Wallis of Savannah. The beau- 
tiful Miss Wallis. Great belle. Ever heard of her ? ” 

“No,” said Miss Penny. 

“Handsome young woman. Daughter of Judge 
Wallis. Man of reputation, Judge Wallis. Nothing 
wrong with Miss Wallis’s health. She’s only taking her 
pleasure, with Miss Fish for a — a — chaperone. That’s 
what they call it. Yes ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A WARNING. 

Miss Penny, still wondering at herself, somewhat, 
entered the hotel. It was the first time she had crossed 
the threshold of any dwelling in Briarville, so little 


20 2 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


leisure had her life afforded ; but the gay parlor with its 
Japanese screens and gilded mirrors, repeating indefi- 
nitely the fantastic chairs and sofas, made little impres- 
sion upon this sunburned woman of the fields, who 
still felt the shock she had received a little while before. 

An elderly lady, most elaborately dressed, was standing 
near one of the windows the sole occupant of the room. 
She turned as Miss Penny entered with the Doctor, and 
fixed a coldly scrutinizing gaze upon her. 

“ Miss Fish,” whispered the Doctor. Then he ad- 
vanced, holding out his hand, “ Good morning, again, 
Miss Fish ? ” he said affably. 

“ Good morning/’ returned Miss Fish, giving her 
hand unwillingly. She disliked shaking hands with 
“the mob of the redeemed.” 

“ I’ve brought Miss Lancaster,” said Dr. Griffith, ex- 
pectant of appreciation. 

Miss Fish bowed, the stiffest of bows ; Miss Lancas- 
ter made an obeisance she had learned she knew not 
where, but she hoped it was the right thing. 

At this moment, the lady Miss Penny had seen in the 
carriage came into the room, both hands outstretched. 
“Ah, here you are, dear Doctor! ” she exclaimed gra- 
ciously, in a voice like a low-toned flute. She was even 
handsomer than she had seemed in the carriage ; a tall, 
dark woman, with a rich pallor — so to speak — enhanced 
by the deep red of her lips, and the gem-like shining of 
her dark eyes. She had the bearing of a queen, while 
every movement was instinct with easy grace. 

Miss Penny, as she gazed, understood, for the first 
time, her Uncle Joe’s continually recurring regret that 
Marjorie had not been sent to her mother’s kindred. 
Marjorie was beautiful too ; Marjorie, with equal oppor- 
tunity, might have had the ease, the grace, the inde- 
scribable charm the world calls style ; but the farm- 
reared Marjorie was a rustic ; and Miss Penny sighed. 

“ And have you brought us that wonderful woman ? ” 
Miss Wallis was saying. “ Oh, I beg your pardon ! 
This is Miss Lancaster ? I am very pleased to meet 
you ! I hope you have recovered from your fright ? 
Won’t you shake hands ? My name is Anastasia Wal- 
lis.” 

The tears rushed to Miss Penny’s eyes, as she took 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER . 


203 

the proffered hand. “1 don’t know” she answered, 
confusedly. “ I was some considerable startled.” 

y Surely she must have been,” thought Dr. Griffith, 
with a puzzled look. 

Miss Wallis seemed about to speak again, but sud- 
denly broke away from them, and ran out into the hall, 
crying : 

“ Harry ! Harry ! Pray come in here ? ” 

In another moment, she returned, accompanied by a 
tall, slender, fair-haired young man, whom Dr. Griffith 
immediately introduced to Miss Penny as “ Mr. Fish.” 

“Mr. Fish!” exclaimed Miss Wallis, laughing. 
“ That comes of Miss Fish always introducing Harry 
as “ my nephew, Harry. ” 

Miss Fish looked annoyed, and murmured something 
about the privilege of an old and intimate friend to be 
considered one of the family. 

“ Miss Fish is very good,” said the young man, join- 
ing the laugh, “to adopt me as she does ; but my 
name is Kenric, Doctor.” 

The Doctor started violently back, as if he had re- 
ceived a blow, and stood rigid, his jaw dropped, his 
arms extended by his sides, and his fists clenched. An 
instant, swift, unreasoning dislike of this goodly young 
fellow took possession of him ; the old bitter jealousy 
of Morrison Kenric was ready to rage anew, under the 
ashes of years. 

But Miss Penny was dominated by a strange calm. 
She heard as one hears in a dream, with a vague won- 
der, but with no surprise ; even it seemed to her quite 
in the natural order of things that she should meet the 
son of her old friend at last — for neither she nor Dr. 
Griffith needed to be told that this was Morrison Ken- 
ric’s son, though he bore no resemblance to his father, 
except in his smile. “I am glad to see you,” she said, 
in slow, measured words that came not of her own 
seeking, and her voice had to her an alien sound ; for 
she herself was far away, in another time, another 
place, bidding farewell to Morrison Kenric on the bleak 
roadside in the murky dawn, dangers besetting her, 
and a fate she had voluntarily invoked, worse than 
death, awaiting her at her journey’s end. And for all 
this, she was forgotten ! Her name awoke no recoi- 


204 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


lection in the son of the man for whom she had taken 
risks so fearful. This bitter thought brought her vio- 
lently back to the present, as she heard Harry Kenric 
saying : 

“ How astonished you look, Doctor ! What is the 
matter ? ” 

But the Doctor had caught from Miss Penny a warn- 
ing glance, as if by intuition, for his eyes did not meet 
hers ; and comprehending that she desired no revela- 
tions, he replied, with clumsy tact : 

“ Unusual name. Very. Thought your name was 
Fish. Beg pardon. Hem ! 

“ My fathers name is Morrison Kenric,” pursued 
Harry, eagerly. “He was in the South when quite a 
young man, and also during the war. You may have 
met him ? ” 

“ Hem ! ” said the Doctor again, with a miserable 
consciousness of Miss Penny’s eyes that he had not the 
courage to meet. “Sure I should have remembered if 
I had met him during the war. Name so unusual. 
Hem ! ” 

“ Yes, the name is unusual,” murmured Miss Fish, 
with her eyes on Miss Penny ; but Miss Penny saw 
only the eyes of Morrison Kenric’s son, who looked at 
her inquiringly but with no recognition. 

Miss Wallis, who also had been studying Miss Pen- 
ny’s face now rescued the company from an awkward 
pause. “ How I should like to visit that farm of yours, 
Miss Lancaster ! ” she exclaimed gayly. “ Have you 
little chickens, and pigs, and calves, and all those dear, 
rustic delights ? ” 

“ Anastasia, you are absurd,” said Miss Fish, stiffly. 

“Anastasia is always absurd,” Miss Wallis made an- 
swer, with a slight uplifting of the brows directed at 
Dr. Griffith. “ I shock Miss Fish, Doctor. She thinks 
my mamma cannot have been sufficiently rigid with 
me.” 

“ And where is your mother ? ” Miss Penny asked, 
abruptly. 

Miss Wallis colored, and paused an instant before re- 
plying ; 

“ My mother has been some years dead. It is Miss 
Fish who keeps me in order now,” she added laughing. 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


205 


There followed some talk about the climate of Briar- 
ville, the growth of the town, the market-garden busi- 
ness of which Miss Lancaster was the pioneer, some 
praise and some condemnation of the hotel, some hint 
of a desire for the quiet of the country — and then Miss 
Penny and the Doctor came away. 

They walked some distance in silence, but when they 
were under the trees of the little pleasure-ground, apart 
from the crowd, Miss Penny stood still and confronted 
the Doctor with the question : 

“Do you really think that young man would be the 
better for living on my farm ? ” 

The Doctor looked at the ground, and he looked at 
Miss Penny, and he pulled his dingy beard. “About 
that young man? Ye-es,” the answer came slowly. 
“About yourself — ” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Oh, don’t you see how plain is, it not one of ’em 
knows who I am?” she cried out bitterly. “I am so 
utterly forgotten, that it is the same as if he were indeed 
a stranger ! ” 

Her old friend put out his hand in wordless sympathy 
but she thrust it from her brusquely, not knowing that 
she hurt him, as she continued with vehemence : 

“And do me this favor ; keep my secret ! ” 

“It shall be as you wish, Penny,” he answered, sigh- 
ing. “But wherefore bring the past back into your life 
at all ? ” 

“Oh, I can take care of myself,” she replied, im- 
patiently. 

“It isn’t that, Penny ! But — I swear I don’t under- 
stand you ! ” he declared, fiercely. 

“Well, never mind,” Miss Penny sighed. How was 
it possible to make him understand what was inexplic- 
able to herself, the strange mixture of sweet and bitter, 
tenderness and resentment, that directed her actions ? 

It was late when Miss Penny returned to her home 
that day, and Marjorie, who stood on the little porch, 
watching for her, chided her affectionately. 

“I was afraid something had befallen you,” she said; 
“ we’ve had dinner so long ago. But I’ve kept yours 
hot. ” 

“Oh, child,” cried Miss Penny, brokenly, “I don’t 
want dinner. Make me a cup of tea.” 


206 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


She took the girl in her arms and burst into tears. 
This was the sole confession she could make that some- 
thing had befallen, and Marjorie was sorely frightened. 
So far as Marjorie knew, tears were an impossibility for 
this strong, independent woman. 

“You are ill ! ” she whispered, with tender solicitude. 
“Come, let me take you to your room and make you 
comfortable. ” 

“ Yes,” sighed Miss Penny, “something has hap- 
pened, dear child ; but I don’t know that anything ’ll 
come of it Some other time, maybe, I’ll talk about 
it. I feel as if I had seen a ghost — a whole legion 
of ’em ! ” 

She suffered herself to be led to her room 'and 
waited upon by this deft and gentle hand-maiden, but 
every kind office Marjorie performed cost Miss Penny 
a keen pang; for the obtrusive and distressing thought 
ever in her mind, was that she had defrauded this child 
of her birthright. There could have been no true home 
in Miss Penny’s farm life without Maijorie ; but what 
if her gain had been Marjorie’s loss ? Every time Miss 
Penny thought of Miss Anastasia Wallis, she sighed, 
and her sighs were almost groans. No wonder Mar- 
jorie thought her ill. 

“ Oh, Marjorie ! ” she cried, “ what should I do with- 
out you ? ” 

“You have been like a mother to me,” Marjorie 
whispered, with fond caresses ; but this declaration 
carried with it no power of consolation ; for the vision 
of Anastasia Wallis was ever before Miss Penny’s eyes, 
reproaching her that she had debarred Marjorie from 
those advantages she might have enjoyed among her 
mother’s kindred. 

Yet Miss Penny’s conscience acquitted her of selfish- 
ness ; it was love had prompted her when she declared 
to her Uncle Joe that she would never give up the child 
she had nursed back to life, a love that made all sacri- 
fices easy for the sake of this motherless girl. And by 
the might of that love, by the extent of those sacrifices, 
Miss Penny had felt herself righteously entitled to ab- 
solute possession of her uncle’s daughter. Was not the 
girl of her kindred also ; and if of her kindred, wherefore 
should not Marjorie be hers ? Thus did Miss Penny 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 207 

strive to persuade herself against the morbid self-re- 
proach that continually insisted upon Marjorie’s claim 
to advantages this rustic life could never command. It 
was a life that fulfilled her own highest ambition ; but 
Marjorie, young, beautiful, bright, seemed entitled to 
hold a widely different position in the world. Some- 
thing of the same feeling that made her revolt against 
Kenric’s offer of marriage, years ago, as unsuited to him 
and to her, possessed her now. She had not hesitated 
to refuse Kenric ; but could she give up Marjorie? “It 
must be that I am growing old, ” thought Miss Penny ; 
“ my strength of purpose deserts me.” 

None of the sermons she had heard preached with 
sonorous strength by the severe theologians of the hill- 
country, none of the long, agonizing prayers she had 
heard offered with fervent groans, seemed to touch her 
case even remotely. She had sinned against a helpless 
child, though she had sinned ignorantly ; what should 
be the measure of her repentance ? What the extent of 
her reparation ? 

For Miss Penny was an honest soul, a thoroughly 
just woman. In the morbid view of her relations to- 
wards Marjorie she had suddenly been led to take, she 
could not deceive herself with the argument that the girl 
was happy in her simple, rural life, far happier, perhaps, 
than she might be in that other life she had missed : 
the fact remained that that other life, whatever the fruits 
it might have borne, was the life of which Marjorie had 
been deprived. And Miss Penny accounted herself the 
instrument by which this had been accomplished ; for 
well she knew that many a time her uncle Joe would 
have opened communication with his wife’s relatives, 
on behalf of Maijorie, had she not restrained him. And 
oh ! bitterest pang of all ! Marjorie must learn the truth 
some day, and when she should come to feel the con- 
trast between her life as it was, and her life as it might 
have been, then would Miss Penny meet her punish- 
ment in the girl’s alienated affection. Now, therefore, 
what did it behoove her to do ? 

“Marjorie,” said Miss Penny, half-choking with the 
question she was about to put as a test, “do you — do 
you ever think of your mother’s kindred ? ” 

Marjorie was startled ; she colored painfully, hesi- 


208 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


tated, but feeling Miss Penny’s eyes full upon her, she 
answered faintly, “Sometimes.” 

“ And do you ever wish for them, wish to be with 
them ? ” Miss Penny asked with painful anxiety. 

Marjorie was silent, and Miss Penny, seeing the 
tears in her eyes, grew faint with anguish. “ Yes ! ” 
she exclaimed, bitterly. “ It is but natural.” 

“ Forgive me ! ” cried Marjorie. “ Oh, forgive me ! 
Do not think I could wish to leave you. Do not, do 
not think that. Why do you ask me such a question ? 
What have you seen this day ? What have you heard 
of my mother s kindred? ” 

“Nothing child; I know nothing of them. But I 
have seen a girl to-day — she is older than you — brought 
up as you might have been, if your mother’s kindred 
had taken you. They are different people from us.” 

Marjorie had turned very pale, and she stood clasping 
her hands tightly as if to subdue her agitation ; but as 
she spoke, her color rose. “ I could never have left my 
Daddy Joe,” she declared. “Never! Never! What 
more need be said about it ? ” 

Miss Penny turned away ; she could not resist a little 
pang of unreasonable jealousy, but with it there mingled 
a repentant tenderness for her uncle, and a great yearn- 
ing to comfort him. She could not forget that it was 
she who had restrained him when he would have se- 
cured for Marjorie the recognition and protection of her 
mother’s family ; it was she who was responsible for 
any trouble of mind he might have suffered on this ac- 
count Her heart went out towards the simple, childish 
old man, idly scraping his fiddle in the vine-shadowed 
porch, and she rose up from the bed where, in sheer ex- 
haustion of mind and spirits she had consented to lie, 
and pushing away Marjorie’s hands that were lightly 
rubbing her aching head, she said : 

“I must go down and see my Uncle Joe, Marjorie. 
I am going to take a boarder ; I must tell him about it.” 

“A boarder?” repeated Marjorie, aghast. 

“Yes,” said Miss Penny, sharply — she was never 
pleased to have her decisions called in question in any 
way — “every one takes boarders about here: why 
should not I ? ” 

Marjorie said nothing, but she felt that she had a clew 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


20 9 

to Miss Penny's unwonted depression : there must surely 
be something amiss in the finances, she thought, to 
necessitate such a step as taking a boarder, and she re- 
solved to save every cent she made from her bee-hives 
and her flowers. 

Miss Penny, little suspecting the impression her an- 
nouncement had made, went downstairs to speak to 
her Uncle Joe. The sight of him beguiling his idleness 
with spasmodic music touched her deepest heart ; she 
understood, now, the long regret that haunted him, for 
it was akin to her own. Urged by an irresistible im- 
pulse of sympathy, she put her arms around his neck 
and kissed him. She was a middle-aged woman, now, 
sun-burned, gray, and wrinkled, and there was no grace 
nor beauty in her to add charm to a caress, save the 
infinite, unspeakable, repentant tenderness that over- 
whelmed her heart. 

Miss Penny was not usually so demonstrative, and 
Mr. Joe was taken by surprise. “ Lord, Penthesilea ! ” 
cried he, with a violent start, “what on earth’s the 
matter? ” And as he rose, tremblingly to his feet, his 
violin slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor. 
With an exclamation of distress, Mr. Joe snatched it up, 
and examined it with great anxiety. 

‘ ‘ It’s cracked ! ” he said, in a broken voice, that trem- 
bled on the verge of tears. “A bad sign, Penthesilea ; 
a bad sign,” he whispered, fearfully 

Miss Penny all her life had cherished too strong a 
faith in herself to be moved by omens, whether of good 
or ill ; but now she was in a mood that made her keenly 
alive to all depressing influences. “Heaven help us ! ” 
she ejaculated, involuntarily. 

Mr. Joe held the cracked fiddle in his arms, and ca- 
ressed it as though it had been some sentient thing — as 
perhaps he half believed it was. “ Forty years. Forty 
years,” he repeated, plaintively. “I never had any- 
thing dearer except my wife, and Marjorie. Penthe- 
silea, what does it mean ? ” he queried, helplessly. 

“It can be mended,” said Miss Penny, rallying her 
shaken spirits ; but Mr. Joe shook his head. 

“Then you shall have another,” she declared. 

“ It wouldn't be the same/' he objected, sadly. 
“ Forty years. Forty years. ” 


210 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


Miss Penny was greatly distressed 

“Cost what it may, Uncle Joe,” she said, “it shall 
be mended. But let us forget it for a little, now ; I’ve 
come to tell you something.” 

“Is it bad news, Penthesilea? Bad news?” he 
asked, with a piteous tremor. 

“I am going to take a boarder,” Miss Penny an- 
nounced. 

“Ah,” he replied, brightening. “That may be well. 
Room to spare ; even you might take several, Penthe- 
silea. Yes, yes ! That’s management. It ain’t a woman, 
is it? They are mighty apt to give trouble, you know.” 

“ No ; it is a young man — the son of Morrison Kenric. ” 

Mr. Lancaster threw up his hands with an inarticu- 
late cry, and Miss Penny saved the fiddle a second fall. 

“Marjorie’s kin! Marjorie’s kin!” he cried shrilly. 
“They’ve come for Marjorie.” 

“ Hush ! oh, hush,” exclaimed Miss Penny, the sharp- 
ness of the surprise awaking all her caution. “ Would 
you have Marjorie know it ? ” 

“No, no ! You reckon best not, don’t you, Penthe- 
silea ? ” said he, appealingly. “You always was against 
telling her, and now you’ll help me keep the secret, 
won’t you ! She don’t know ; I never told her ; and 
now I don’t want her to know.” 

“But Mr. Kenric and his son, do they not know? ” 
Miss Penny asked. 

“No, no ; that is impossible ! ” replied her uncle, fret- 
fully. “Unless I tell ’em they can’t know. And I ain’t 
goin’ to tell ’em. When Marjorie was young enough to 
be sent to school, you wouldn’t let me, and now I 
won’t. Nobody knows but me ; it was just my sur- 
prise made me say they had come for her. They don't 
know. But, Penthesilea, you ain’t bound to take a 
boarder? ” 

“Yes,” Miss Penny answered, with her accustomed 
decision ; “I am bound to take this one, for Providence 
sent him ; I did not seek him. But — we need not tell 
Marjorie — perhaps we need never tell her.” 

Mr. Joe caressed his fiddle, and sadly shook his head. 

“A bad sign/’ he murmured, plaintively. “Quem 
deus vult per dere ” 

“I don’t understand Latin, you know, Uncle Joe,” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 2 li 

said Miss Penny impatiently ; “but I am notgoing to bor- 
row trouble. She did not pretend to understand why it 
comforted her to know that Morrison Kenric was Mar- 
jorie’s kindred, but she accepted the comfort thankfully. 

A new and by no means pleasant experience awaited 
her, when she informed Memory Waits that she had 
decided to take Harry Kenric to board. He heard her 
with a look of indignant astonishment that Miss Penny 
could ill brook. 

“And Marjorie? ” he stammered, before he was 
aware. 

It did not appease Miss Penny’s wrath that he col- 
ored guiltily. “Marjorie?” she repeated sharply. 
“What of Marjorie?” 

But Memory could not put his forebodings into words : 
he left the discussion of Marjorie to present another as- 
pect of the case. “Two trades is bad luck, Miss Lank- 
ster, I always hear tell,” said he. “It reminds me, 
sorter of that Latin Mr. Lankster talks, ’bout them the 
gods would destroy first loses their senses.” 

His manner was respectful, but his words exasper- 
ated Miss Penny beyond bounds. 

“Don’t preach my uncle’s Latin to me,” said she; 
“and remember that I am mistress of my own place.” 
For the first time she was very angry with Memory 
Waits. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MISS ANASTASIA WALLIS. 

“I never approved of the plan,” said Miss Fish, with 
vicious emphasis. “Never.” She had just returned 
from a visit to Miss Penny’s farm, where Harry Kenric 
had now been established some three weeks quite to 
his satisfaction. “From the moment I beheld that 
woman, I disapproved.” 

“So did I,” said Miss Wallis, “/disapproved even 
before Dr. Griffith introduced Miss Lancaster to us. 
You remember I urged our leaving here.” 


212 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


“ And yet you have not a word to say against Harry’s 
being domiciled with this woman ? ” 

“She has a name/’ said Miss Wallis, with a slight 
frown of annoyance ; “ Let us call her Miss Lancaster. 
As to Harry being an inmate of her house, that is his 
affair altogether. I assure you I never mean to oppose 
our friend Harry.” 

“I admire your wisdom, Anastasia. In your posi- 
tion it would be most ungraceful , to say the least, to 
oppose Harry. But — I had expected you to use your 
influence. Harry is very young.” 

“He isn’t so very much younger than I am,” Miss 
Wallis remarked, quickly. 

“ But you are wise beyond your years, my dear ! ” 

Miss Wallis lifted her hands as if in deprecation. 
They were very pretty hands, and she used them grace- 
fully. 

“I blame Dr. Griffith,” pursued Miss Fish, with rhe- 
torical indignation. “ He ought to have perceived the 
shoals and quicksands before he guided Harry’s bark 
into dangerous waters.” 

“Pray let us dispense with metaphor, my dear Miss 
Fish. To be plain, then?” 

“To be plain — there is a girl.” 

Miss Wallis burst out laughing. “How fearfully 
tragic ; But I admit there is always a possible tragedy 
where there is a girl concerned.” 

“I suppose, for Harry’s sake, you wouldn’t object 
to going out there ? I mean to board ? ” Miss Fish 
asked, with some eagerness. 

“I should object most decidedly,” replied Miss 
Wallis, coloring vividly. 

“My dear Anastasia, the rooms are better than these 
we have here, and Harry commends the fare,” said Miss 
Fish, in a tone of remonstrance. 

“You would die of the isolation,” Miss Wallis de- 
clared. 

“/am not selfish,” sighed Miss Fish. “I’ve been a 
friend of the Morrisons and the Kenrics from my youth 
up, and I feel that I owe a duty to Morrison’s boy. If 
I can stand a few weeks of isolation for Harry’s sake, I 
am sure you might.” 

The two ladies were alone in the parlor of the hotel. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 2 1 3 

Miss Wallis rose and stood by the remotest window, 
looking out upon the street ; and Miss Fish, seeing that 
no reply was forthcoming, announced defiantly : 

“ I've engaged rooms there, anyway ! ” 

“Ah? You’ve gone so far as that? ” said Miss Wallis 
reproachfully, as she came back from the window. 
“You would force me to be a spy upon Harry Kenric ? ” 

“ I wish you would not use such expressions, Anas- 
tasia ! You need not trouble yourself about Harry, if 
you do not choose ; but / am actuated by a sense of 
duty. ” 

Miss Wallis smiled but said nothing. She returned to 
the window and stood there, as if lost in thought. 

“ Am I to understand that you consent to go to Miss 
Lancaster’s ?” Miss Fish asked, at last. “We may as 
well make ready for the move.” 

“And if I refuse ?” said Miss Wallis. 

“I am capable of going to Miss Lancaster’s without 
you ! ” Miss Fish declared recklessly. 

“And leave me here in this hotel ? ” 

“ I should write and state the case explicitly to Judge 
Wallis. ” 

Miss Wallis laughed. “ Poor, dear papa ! He thought 
he had settled Anastasia comfortably for the summer, 
when he arranged with Miss Fish to take charge of her. 
And Anastasia thought, by the terms of the arrangement, 
that her wishes were to be consulted. ” 

“ I should be very sorry indeed,” — Miss Fish began, 
but Miss Wallis interrupted : 

* Yes ; it would be hard on you, Miss Fish, to forfeit 
the pretty little plum papa pays you — ” 

“Miss Wallis! I ” 

“Ah, forgive me! ” cried Anastasia, contritely. “ I 
was vexed. Why should I refuse to go to Miss Lan- 
caster’s to board ? On the whole, I think it will be an 
admirable plan. I withdraw my objections. Let us go, 
by all means ! ” 

She came and stood before Miss Fish, her face flushed, 
her eyes sparkling, evidently under the influence of 
some subdued excitement. 

“ I don’t understand you !” stammered Miss Fish. 

“ No, ” said Anastasia, soberly ; ‘ ‘ you couldn’t, unless 
you had known me as a little girl. ” 


214 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER, 


She paused abruptly, colored, toyed a moment with 
her bracelets, of which she wore an unusual number ; 
then, dropping her hands, she said, smiling : 

“As a child, I was always fond of playing with 
fire.” 

Miss Fish gave her a blank look. 

“I delighted in taking risks,” Miss Wallis explained, 
enigmatically. 

Still Miss Fish stared, blankly. 

“I think I was meant for an adventuress!” Miss 
Wallis declared. 

“Anastasia /” cried Miss Fish, horrified. 

Anastasia burst out laughing. “ ‘ There is no armor 
against fate,’” she quoted gayly. “Since you wish it, 
dear Miss Fish, let us take up our abode at Miss 
Lancaster’s. It will be very interesting , I haven’t a 
doubt. ” 

“I’m sure I don’t want to go there,” Miss Fish de- 
clared, in an injured tone. “I never was on a farm 
longer than a few moments, in all my life.” 

“Then you shall have a new experience.” 

“I shall have a very disagreeable experience, I dare 
say. Do you know who that woman is ? That Miss 
Lancaster ? ” 

“ Yes,’’ answered Miss Wallis, examining her brace- 
lets with an abstracted air ; but the next moment she 
looked up smiling and said, “ She is a woman whom 
every one seems to hold in high esteem.” 

“ I see you don't know,” said Miss Fish, with a cau- 
tious glance over her shoulder to make sure there were 
no listeners. “When Dr. Griffith introduced her, I knew 
I had met her before. It came to me, all at once, that 
she is the same person Harry’s father took a sort of 
philanthropic fancy to, in that obscure Georgia town, 
before the war.” 

Miss Wallis colored, but said nothing. 

“ It was in a milliner’s shop, in Savannah, that we en- 
countered her,” continued Miss Fish, “the winter we 
went South for Alice’s health, — Harry’s mother, you 
know — The meeting was altogether accidental and un- 
expected, and Morrison made a great demonstration 
over her. I pointed out to Alice that it was not alto- 
gether becoming to take so much notice of a milliner’s 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


2I 5 

girl, and she never liked to hear about her afterwards. 
She exacted a promise of Morrison that he would never 
speak to Harry about this Penny Lancaster. Poor 
Alice ! It was all philanthropy on Morrison’s part, of 
course. I dare say he has told you about it ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Miss Wallis briefly. 

“ But I have always considered that Morrison made 
an escape,” continued Miss Fish. “You may be sure 
she did her best. And she wouldn’t be a woman if she 
did’nt try to pay off old scores by marrying that girl to 
Morrison’s son.” 

“And his father would not be pleased,” said Miss 
Wallis, slowly. 

“ * Would not be pleased ' is a very mild term,” Miss 
Fish replied. “ For my part — •” 

“ For my part,” interrupted Miss Wallis, with spirit, 
“ it is the girl I am concerned for. I’ve seen her ; she 
has the look of a heart-breaking constancy.” 

“ Don’t let us indulge in sentiment” said Miss Fish, 
coldly, “The girl is like all the rest of her class, no 
doubt. A little flattery will turn her head.” 

“So it does not break her heart,” murmured Miss 
Wallis ; but Miss Fish did not hear her. She was leav- 
ing the room, when Miss Wallis called her back. “One 
moment, please, Miss Fish ! Has she — Miss Lancaster, 
said anything about — about her early acquaintance with 
Mr. Kenric ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Miss Fish haughtily. “I do 
not invite impertinent confidences.” 

“ That is true,” Miss Wallis assented. “But there is 
Harry — He is not forbidding — ” She glanced at Miss 
Fish with a gleam of furtive amusement in her handsome 
eyes. 

But Miss Fish’s faith in her own immaculate perfec- 
tion rendered her obtuse ; she replied, with serene sat- 
isfaction : 

“So far, she has not enlightened Harry. Doubtless 
she has her own reasons for silence.” 

“ Let us give her credit for some native dignity, ” Miss 
Wallis pleaded, with feeling, “some inborn delicacy. 
She comes of the Donalds ; and I have heard my mother 
say there is no better blood in Georgia.” 

Miss Fish stared. “ I am at a loss to understand you, 


2l6 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER . 


Anastasia/' she said, coldly. “ But as we are to leave 
here, I would suggest that it is time we were making 
our preparations." 

Thus it came to pass that Miss Penny, having three 
large rooms she did not need to use, found herself, 
rather to her own surprise, with three boarders in her 
house. They did not, however, interrupt in the least 
the methodical routine of the farm. Their meals were 
served them at their own hours, for they could never 
have conformed to Miss Penny’s hours ; and they came 
and went as suited their pleasure. In the morning they 
read, or wrote letters in the rustic pavilion that Memory 
Waits had erected on Marjorie’s lawn, or they lounged 
on the new broad piazza Miss Penny had recently built, 
just under the cherry-trees, and overlooking the garden. 
In the afternoon they drove, for Harry Kenric kept his 
horses and a little wagon in Miss Penny’s stable. They 
did not seek the society of the strangers visiting Briar- 
ville, Miss Fish pretended that the absolute rest and 
quiet of country life was essential to her own health ; 
but Miss Wallis made no pretence whatever; she had 
an unusual capacity for finding enjoyment in any en- 
vironment, and the happy gift of making herself ac- 
ceptable to people everywhere. When she discovered 
that Mr. Lancaster was disconsolate about his disabled 
fiddle, she bought a guitar and sang for him until he 
was almost consoled for the loss of his own music. She 
followed Memory Waits about the farm, and delighted 
his bucolic soul with the admiration she evinced 
for his knowledge of “all out doors," as she largely 
phrased it ; she helped Marjorie feed the chickens, she 
helped Miss Penny shell the beans for dinner, but she 
left Harry Kenric to the tender mercies of Miss Fish. 

Miss Fish was very devoted to that young man. She 
played chess with him by the hour ; but sometimes Miss 
Fish needed repose, and what went on when she was 
recruiting her powers she never knew ; she hoped An- 
astasia was taking her place. At the end of two weeks, 
Miss Fish began to find the life she led at Lancaster’s 
Farm intolerably tedious ; but when she complained 
Miss Wallis only laughed. 

“If I could but understand Harry!" Miss Fish la- 
mented. “However it isn’t altogether in vain that I 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 2 \J 

came. I suppose you have remarked this great oaf of a 
farm hand — ” 

“Foreman of the crop/’ suggested Miss Wallis, with 
demure humor. 

. “Well, if that’s his title ! ” impatiently. “ He has set 
his affections on this girl.” 

“ Propinquity,” said Miss Wallis. 

“I shall encourage the idea,” Miss Fish declared. 

“Pray do not ! ” entreated Miss Wallis, impulsively ; 
but when Miss Fish asked “Why not?” she had no 
reason to give. “The uncouth creature has a heart, I 
find, ” was her somewhat irrelevant answer. ‘ ‘ Ah, Miss 
Fish, there is a great drama going on here, if only you 
knew how to watch it,” she added, earnestly. 

“ There is great folly going on ! ” Miss Fish retorted, 
sourly. Miss Wallis sighed. 

“The girl is too pretty.” Miss Fish declared, with 
energetic disapproval. 

“ She has a face like a Madonna ! ” Miss Wallis as- 
sented with enthusiasm. 

“She has a face like Laura Dent,” said Miss Fish, 
bitterly. “ It’s a kind of face I always distrust” 

Miss Wallis colored. “ If Laura Dent had a face like 
that,” she said, in a low voice, as if speaking to herself, 
“ no wonder Harry’s father loved her.” 

“Oh, it didn’t amount to a row of pins. A boyish 
fancy that did not interfere with Morrison’s marrying 
wisely at last. ” 

“I have heard the marriage was not happy,” Miss 
Wallis remarked, provokingly. She knew that Miss 
Fish had been mainly instrumental in the match. 

It was a question Miss Fish did not care to discuss. 

“ I shall write to Harry’s father ! ” she declared pee- 
vishly. “I shall insist upon his presence here.” 

“ That he may renew his pristine devotion to Miss 
Lancaster ? And be brought face to face with the like- 
ness of his early love ? How romantic you are, Miss 
Fish ! ” 

“ Don’t be absurd, Anastasia ! An ordinary woman- 
farmer ? ” 

“Not ordinary,” said Miss Wallis, with heightened 
color, as she rose and went to the window overlooking 
Marjorie’s lawn. “ She is no ordinary character, be 


2 1 8 PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 

sure ! Ah, there go Marjorie and Harry to gather 
flowers for the bouquets. Idyllic employment ! And 
Memory Waits in the background like a dark shadow. 
Commedia a soggetto , eh, Miss Fish ? ” 

“ My dear/’ said Miss Fish, with solemn adjuration, 
“ it is your duty to go and join them.” 

“ Excuse me ! ” replied Miss Wallis, gayly. “It is 
my pleasure just now to go and talk to Miss Lancas- 
ter.” 

“Anastasia! Anastasia!” Miss Fish called after 
her, indignantly. “You know that I am not equal to 
the fatigue — ” 

But Anastasia was gone. 

Shyness was not natural to Anastasia Wallis, and yet 
that was the feeling with which Miss Penny had in- 
spired her : but the more she saw of the mistress of the 
farm, the more irresistibly was she attracted to her ; and 
when the idea suggested itself that Harry’s father might 
visit the farm, might renew the romantic friendship of 
his youth, she was seized with the overmastering de- 
sire to hear from Miss Penny’s own lips some revelation 
of her early life ; moreover, she craved Miss Penny’s 
sympathy in her own case. 

Miss Penny was seated on a bench under the cherry- 
trees. There were seats in every shady spot about the 
farm, for Miss Penny, when she had time to sit down, 
preferred the open air. She had a big needle with a 
long thread, and she was stringing peppers. The sun 
was low in the west, but she still wore her broad- 
brimmed hat. 

“ How you do love to work ! ” said Anastasia, with a 
timidity she never felt in a ball-room, or at a dinner- 
party. 

“ Blessed be they who love to work ! ” Miss Penny 
responded, as though she were reciting the ritual of in- 
dustry. 

“ Weariness of the flesh is an antidote for weariness 
of the spirit, so they tell us, ” said Anastasia, as she sat 
down, on the other end of the bench, without waiting 
to be invited. “ Dr. Griffith has told us about your 
‘pluck/ as men call it, in starting this farm of yours ; it 
is as interesting as a romance, ” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


219 

Dr. Griffith knows all my history/' said Miss Penny, 
with suppressed wrath ; “ but I wouldn't have suspected 
him of telling it to strangers. ” 

“ Indeed, you do him wrong ! He told us only of 
the farm. I did not even imagine that he knew any- 
thing of you until he came here. He said he found 
you here. 

Miss Penny turned her head away, and her hat con- 
cealed her face. . A little she was amused, a little she 
was touched. “ There is nothing to be ashamed of in 
my life," she said ; “ but there are some things it pains 
me to remember." 

“ Was it a very eventful story? "Miss Wallis vent- 
ured. 

“ Oh — I had my ups and downs," Miss Penny an- 
swered, plying her big needle. 

“ Do you know, Miss Lancaster," I wonder you 
never married ? Weren’t you ever in love ? " Anastasia 
asked impetuously. 

“ Yes," said Miss Penny, with a slow smile ; “ oftener 
than once." 

“ Do tell me about it ? " Anastasia entreated drawing 
nearer, and putting her hand within Miss Penny’s 
arm. 

“ My first love," said Miss Penny, busily stringing 
peppers, and giving no heed to the hand within her 
arm, “ was a baby-girl, the child of one of my sis- 
ters." 

“ Yes," said Anastasia, withdrawing her hand. 

‘ * And — what became of her ? ” 

“She passed out of my life," replied Miss Penny, 
simply ; “ and after a while God granted me to forget 
her. " 

“ But, you know, that is not the love I mean," said 
Anastasia, lightly. “I mean — real love.” 

“ That was as real as any I ever felt," Miss Penny 
declared. 

Miss Wallis made a movement as if she would put 
her hand within Miss Penny's arm again, but restrained 
herself. “But — a lover’s love," she said. “I am in a 
mood to hear a thrilling story." 

Miss Penny gave her a quick, keen glance. “I lived 


220 


PENNY LANCASTER. PARMER. 


my life as it came,” said she, briefly. “ Most of us do.” 
If Miss Wallis had heard her story, as perhaps she had, 
from Morrison Kenric, there was no need for its repeti- 
tion, Miss Penny thought. 

“ And — have you been happy ? ” 

“Fairly so,” replied Miss Penny, tying her second 
string of peppers. 

“ You don't want to tell me, I see,” said Anastasia ; 
“but you seem such a strong woman. I don’t mean 
bodily strength ; that is not uncommon, but I mean the 
strength of character that can be relied upon, that can 
give support to others. I am not asking for advice ; I 
shouldn’t be willing to take it ; but it is a relief to talk 
to some one, and I can’t talk to Miss Fish ; she wouldn’t 
understand. Pray tell me, Miss Lancaster, did you 
ever love any one so that you could commit a meanness 
for the sake of that love ? ” 

Miss Penny started. She dropped her needle and the 
peppers together, and clasped her hands. Her face 
was very pale, Anastasia noticed. 

“ Once,” she said, in a half whisper. “Once I loved 
some one well enough to have lived a lie of a lifetime 
for his sake.” 

“ I hate a lie,” said Anastasia, in a low voice. “And 
a lifetime lie — ” she ended with a shudder. 

“ God spared me that martyrdom,” said Miss Penny, 
with a long sigh. 

“ But — please don’t mind my questions,” Miss Wallis 
went on ; “ you do not know how deeply this interests 
me. Why didn’t you marry him you loved ? ” 

“ Hedid not love me,” Miss Penny answered, calmly. 

“ And you have lived single for his sake? ” 

“ No ! ” said Miss Penny, with quick indignation. 
“ I’ve lived single for the sake of my farm.” 

“ My mother died when I was still a young girl,” 
said Miss Wallis, after a pause ; ” and I am not a young 
girl any longer, as you need not be told. I have had a 
number of offers, and I have been several times engaged 
to be married, but I found out, every time, that it wasn’t 
love, and I began to think there could be no such thing 
for me, until — until, at last the great experience came ! 
It is a new existence, my old -self is swept away — ■” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


22 1 


“ In the gathering- dusk, Miss Penny went on string- 
ing her peppers with a desperate industry. Anastasia 
saw that her hands trembled. Presently, she turned to 
Miss Wallis, and with fierce vehemence of utterance, 
said to her ; 

“ Do you think I am over-ready to lay bare my life? 
I have told you what I never yet have told any human 
being. I have told you because I want you to know 
that though my hands are hard with toil which is my 
portion in this world I have a heart as well as those who 
rustle in silk and glitter in jewels. I have balked at 
nothing for some I have loved, and my reward is — 
oblivion.” 

With an involuntary gesture, Miss Wallis put up her 
hands and turned her face away ; she could not bear 
the lightning of Miss Penny’s eyes. 

“ Where is Marjorie ? ” said Miss Penny, impatiently, 
as she gathered up her basket 

“ Marjorie is in the pavilion, making up her bouquets,” 
Miss Wallis answered ; and after a moment’s pause, she 
added, “ Harry Kenric is helping her.” 

“ Marjorie is a child ! ” said Miss Penny, sharply. 

“ No, ’’replied Miss Wallis, gently ; “she was a child 
five weeks ago : Marjorie to-day is a woman, though 
she does not know it yet. ” 

Miss Penny lifted up her voice and called, “ Mar— jo 
— rie Lan — cas— ter ? ” as she went around the corner of 
the house. It sounded like the wail of a Banshee. 

From the place where she sat, Anastasia could see 
the orchard on the slope dim in the evening shadows. 
The wind was in the boughs of the cherry-trees, and the 
scent of new mown hay was on the air. The crickets 
shrilled in the grass, and far away upon the hillside a 
whip-poor-will was calling, and slowly above the belt 
of woodland rose the moon. All things breathed of 
peace and rest 

“ But in my heart there is neither peace nor rest,” 
said Anastasia bitterly. “All my life I have hated 
deception ; and now I have not the courage to be true. 
Oh, my love ! my love ! I who would be all that is esti- 
mable in vour eyes, I am a fraud, and I despise myself, 
because I dare not tell you who I really am ! 


222 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MEMORY REMONSTRATES. 

Marjorie, when she heard Miss Penny s voice, started 
like a guilty creature ; and yet, wherein was the wrong 
of accepting Harry Kenric’s assistance in making up her 
bouquets ? It was not a thing forbidden, though the 
work would certainly have progressed more rapidly 
without his aid, for not half the bouquets were yet tied 
up, and Marjorie knew that Memory Waits had by this 
time packed the cart that carried the vegetables. 

She sprang up from the bench where she was at work, 
and ran out of the pavilion, leaving her flowers behind 
her. How like a woodland nymph she looked, thought 
Harry, as she went flying across the lawn. 

Miss Penny was in the big, open store-room at the 
end of the long gallery, a room reserved for all such im- 
pedimenta of the farm as could not find fit place in the 
barn. Here were the baskets for packing vegetables 
and fruit, the cans for milk, the balls of twine, the water- 
ing-pots and hose, the lanterns, the pruning-shears ; and 
here hung Miss Penny's big hat and leather gloves, when 
they were not in wearing. The middle of this room 
was occupied by a large, square table, to the centre of 
which was screwed a tall lamp ; but the lamp was not 
lighted, and Miss Penny's figure was dimly outlined in 
the dusk. Miss Penny preferred to have it so : in cer- 
tain states of feeling the dark is not only soothing, it is 
a desirable screen. Miss Penny’s deeds were not evil 
that she should shun the light, yet her conscience was 
holding her severely to account. In consenting to re- 
ceive Harry Kenric as an inmate, she had acted upon 
impulse, an impulse born of that old, early devotion to 
the young man’s father, which, in spite of the intervening 
years, in spite of the bitterness of feeling herself con- 
signed to oblivion, still held sway in Miss Penny’s heart. 
When Miss Fish and Miss Wallis became part of her 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


223 

household, she accepted them as a necessary conse- 
quence of receiving Harry Kenric. Of Marjorie she 
had not thought at all, for Marjorie was to her a child. 
Memory Waits had indeed given her an intimation that 
Marjorie was of an age to be considered, but in Miss 
Penny’s estimation Memory was no competent judge of 
her actions, and she had resented his note of warning as 
an impertinence. But now she saw with her own eyes, 
and she was sore disturbed. 

Marjorie came in panting, her soft hair blown around 
her flushed face, her eyes aglow, as might be seen, even 
in that dusky light, but they drooped and could not meet 
Miss Penny’s reproving look. 

“ Marjorie,” said Miss Penny, “you are no longer a 
child. ” It was not at all what she had meant to say, 
and she was vexed with herself for using Miss Wailis’s 
words, and still more vexed that she could not resist the 
force of them, and her tone was harsher than she had 
ever yet used towards Marjorie. “You waste your 
time.” 

Marjorie knew that in Miss Penny’s estimation the 
waste of time was a crime. She clasped her slender 
brown hands nervously, and faltered ; 

“But I cannot prevent Mr. Kenric’s coming to heip 
about the flowers. ” 

“ Hinder, you mean,” said Miss Penny, tartly. 
Don’t excuse yourself by laying the blame on others, 
Marjorie ; that is something I never do. Where are the 
bouquets ? ” 

Marjorie started. She had been speaking of the flow- 
ers, but she had utterly forgotten the bouquets, and there 
were so few of them ! She did not know how it was 
that it took so long to make them when Mr. Kenric 
helped, and yet the time seemed so short ! “I left them 
in the pavilion,” she stammered. “I will go for them.” 

“No,” said Miss Penny, with a detaining hand on 
the young girl’s arm, that was almost fierce in its grasp ; 
“ I will go myself.” 

Marjorie left alone in the dusky room, sat down beside 
the table, pained, bewildered, almost frightened. She 
put her hand upon her heart to still its beating, and the 
tears came into her eyes. 

Miss Wallis was right ; Marjorie did not yet know that 


224 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


she was no more a child ; the Princess still slept, but she 
had begun to dream. She sat quite still, living over the 
scene in the pavilion, feeling Harry Kenric’s eyes upon 
her, thrilling at the accidental touch — she thought it 
accidental — of his fingers among the flowers, and 
wondering, half in joy, and more than half in fear, at 
the change that seemed to be stealing over all things. 
She did not hear Memory Wait’s heavy step upon the 
piazza, she was not conscious of his presence in the 
room until he spoke. 

“Ye air late with your flowers, Marjorie/' he said, in 
a tone of cold rebuke. “Ye’ve been mostly late these 
days. ” 

Marjorie’s heart ached. She had not the spirit to re- 
tort that it made not the slightest difference whether the 
flowers went into the cart then, or waited until morning. 
She co.uld only wonder dumbly why it was that every- 
one seemed in a league to condemn her — even Daddy 
Joe, would not he too speak coldly to her, if he knew 
how she had trifled away her time? True, Daddy Joe did 
not take much account of time, himself, sitting idle in 
cozy nooks. The thought of him now pierced Marjorie’s 
heart. She had been wont to seek her dear daddy when 
she made up her bouquets, to spend the twilight hour 
of rest with him ; but for days and days, now, she had 
forgotten him ! How lonely and sad he must have 
been, missing her ! 

With this thought, she rose up quickly to go to him. 

“Don’t ye go, Marjorie,” said Memory Waits. “I 
got somethin’ to say. ” As he spoke, he drew a match 
across the toe of his heavy shoe, and lighted the lamp. 
For Memory Waits had nothing to hide, and he was 
keen to see Marjorie’s face. 

It was a face touching in its pallor that the light 
illumined, and the anger burning in the heart of this son 
of the soil gave place to a passionate tenderness that 
shook him from head to foot, and trembled in his voice. 
“What ails ye, Marjorie ? he asked. 

“Nothing ails me,” Marjorie answered, resentment 
coming to her aid : Memory’s anger grieved her ; his 
tenderness was a shock. ‘ ‘ Qin’t I rest when I’m tired ? ” 

“Ye air not yourself lately,” said Memory, with 
gloom. “ Strangers have clone it ! Ye air tired of th$ 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


225 

farm and farm life ; ye hanker after city ways, and — 
and — city folks.” 

“It is not true!” said Marjorie, tremulously. “I 
love the farm ; I love every inch of it It is my home 
where I have been so happy.” 

“Oh, Marjorie!” Memory Waits shaded his eyes 
with his hands, and his breath came in quick sighs. A 
few weeks ago Marjorie would have asked him frankly 
if he were ill, but now she was silent. 

“ Don’t put your faith in strangers, Marjorie, don/,” 
he said presently, with a sort of stern entreaty. “ How 
do ye know” — but he broke off abruptly. 

“ Strangers ? ” repeated Marjorie, with her hand to her 
head. “Strangers?” Was Harry Kenric, then, a s/ran- 
ger ? He seemed to her no more a stranger than Daddy 
Joe, hardly so much a stranger as her strenuous cousin 
Penthesilea. 

“Trust old friends, Marjorie; old friends are best,” 
he said, eagerly. 

“ Trust old friends ! ” sighed Marjorie, with a heaven- 
ly smile. “You are an old friend, Memory; I trust 
you fully.” 

It was an inspiration of divinest pity that prompted 
this speech, and yet Marjorie did not know that she pitied 
Memory Waits ; she only knew that she was uneasy in 
his presence, and she went out quickly to seek her Daddy 
Joe. 

Memory made no further attempt to detain her ; he 
looked after her frowning, as with a deep sigh he sat down 
and drew from his pocket a little worn Bible, wherein 
after long turning of the leaves, he fell upon this passage 
in the Psalms : 

“/ have pursued mine enemies , and overtaken them : 
neither did I turn again till they were consumed. 

1 1 1 have wounded them that they were not able to rise : 
they are fallen under my feet. 

For thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle : 
thou hast subdued under me those that rose up against me. 

Thou hast also given me the necks of mine enemies ; that 
I might destroy them that hate me. 

They cried but there was none to save them ; even unto 
the Lord \ but he answered them not, 


226 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


And as he read, he was comforted, his despondency 
gave way to a fierce, exultant, yet subdued joy. 

Marjorie found her Daddy Joe sitting disconsolate in 
the corner of the vine-embowered porch that fronted the 
road. The moon had not yet risen high enough to give 
light to that side of the house, and Mr. Lancaster sat in 
shadow; but just beyond, the shimmer of silvery light 
fell across the lawn and the flower-borders, and in the 
pavilion Marjorie could see two figures dimly outlined, 
and she knew they were Miss Penny and Harry Kenric. 

“Why are they there so long? ” she wondered, un- 
easily, as she went behind the old man’s chair, and 
slipped her arms around his neck. 

“Daddy Joe ! Daddy Joe ! ” she whispered appeal- 
ingly ; for Marjorie craved comforting, she knew not 
wherefore. 

“Why, Marjorie? Seems to me I ain’t seen you for 
the longest,” he said as he folded his hands over hers. 
“ Been busy ? ” 

But Marjorie did not answer ; she only stooped over, 
and laid her cheek against his in a mute caress. “ Dear 
Daddy Joe ! ” she thought. “ I had forgotten him, alas ! 
but he does not chide me ! ” 

“So you’ve been happy, Marjorie ; so you’ve been 
happy. I’m glad ! ” said he, with tremulous appeal in 
his tones. 

In her heart of hearts Marjorie did not know whether 
she was happy ; if this new strange feeling that possessed 
her was happiness, then happiness meant a strange un- 
rest — and yet — how was all the familiar commonplace 
of existence glorified by a new, and as yet nameless 
interest ! It was as if she stood upon the threshold of a 
new world, and she trembled at the vividness of a joy 
but half revealed ; and yet — strange paradox ! distinct 
enough to cast a shadow on her untried heart. 

“I love you! I love you, my Daddy, better and 
better,” she sighed. “I didn’t mean to leave you 
alone, evening after evening. I never will again. I 
think I am happiest with you. Have you been happy, 
my Daddy ? ” 

“ I miss my fiddle, child,” he answered evasively. 

“But Cousin says you are to have a new one,” 
Marjorie reminded him. 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER 


227 

“I don’t want it,” he cried, with an impatient move- 
ment. “ Old friends are best.” 

Marjorie recoiled slightly. Why was she to be re- 
minded again and again of this exacting claim of old 
friends P Had she begun to care the less for those she 
had always loved? 

“ You’ve found it very nice to have Miss Wallis sing 
to you. I’m sure she’s a new friend,” said she, with 
gentle reproach. 

“Yes, yes ! ’’returned Mr. Lancaster, peevishly; “but 
it makes me sad. ” 

“ How ? Sad? Are not her songs gay? ” 

Mr. Lancaster stretched out his hand and drew Mar- 
jorie near to him again, and leaned his head against her 
arm. “ Marjorie,” he said, with a struggling sigh, “if 
you had had her chances — you might be — like her.” 

“Don’t you like me best as I am? ” Marjorie asked, 
a little hurt. “Nothing could make me wish you 
different. ” 

“Marjorie! Marjorie!” he cried out, piteously. 
“You won’t leave me? No matter what happens, you 
won’t leave me ? It isn’t for much longer I shall stand 
in your way, my little girl ! ” 

Marjorie put her hands on his lips, she clasped his 
head in her arms, and covered his rugged face with 
tender kisses. 

“ Oh, hush ! hush ! my father ! ” she whispered, with 
a sobbing breath. 

“No, no ; Daddy Joe is the name you first learned to 
call me ; I like that best I cling to the old, Marjorie ; 
I dread the new.” 

“I will never leave you, no matter what happens,’ 
said Marjorie. “My dearest ! my best ! Did you feel 
forsaken because yesterday and the day before and the 
day before that I let — I let — other things detain me ? 
Oh, yes ! I have been very wicked, to let the days 
slip by, and not find an evening rest with you, my dear, 
dear old Daddy ! But see ! I am sorry. I love you 
best of all ! I am always happy when I am with you. 
Isn’t my mother near us, when we two are alone to- 
gether, you and I, dear Daddy? I could almost think 
1 hear her wings. ” 

“I don’t know, Maijorie,” said Mr. Lancaster, draw- 


228 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


ing a little away from her. “I ain’t clear about them 
that are dead and gone. Maybe they know, and maybe 
they don’t. Anyway, there ain’t no direction to be got 
from ’em when you’re uncertain about your duty, and 
uneasy in your mind.” 

With a heavy sigh, he laid his hand caressingly upon 
her rounded white throat, and for some moments there 
was silence ; but suddenly he started, and cried out in 
alarm : 

“ Marjorie ! Where is the locket ? The little silver 
locket that was your mother’s? You haven’t lost it?” 
There was an accent of terror in his voice. 

Marjorie put both hands to her throat. “I had it! 
I had it this evening,” she said. “ I know I had it ! ” 

“Such bad luck! Such bad luck !” lamented Mr. 
Lancaster, stooping to search the floor of the porch. 
“To lose a memento of the dead means change and 
loss of friends. ” 

Marjorie did not assist in the search; with her hands 
to her head, she was striving to think what could have 
become of the locket. She was sure that she had it in 
the pavilion before Miss Penny called her; but after 
that she remembered nothing clearly ; emotions so 
varied and so conflicting had crowded that little half 
hour since she left her bouquets all unfinished. She 
glanced towards the pavilion, where Miss Penny still 
sat with Harry Kenric. She must wait until supper 
should call them away. But surely supper was very 
late ! 

And then in the darkness behind her, the voice of Cin- 
thy the cook uttered this warning : 

“ Sho’ly, Miss Marjorie, if you nur Miss Lankster 
don’t nair one come to see ’bout the table, things’ 11 git 
as soggy as new ploughed furrows in a spring rain, and 
that Miss Fish’ 11 ’spress her ’pinions.” By which speech 
Cinthy’s opinion of Miss Fish was made clear. 

Marjorie glanced again at the pavilion where Miss 
Penny still sat immovable. She could not retaliate by 
calling “ Pen — the — sil — ea Lan-cas — ter ! ” so she meek- 
ly obeyed Cynthy’s summons and went to see about the 
table. 

It might have been midnight for all Miss Penny 
knew. She had gone to the pavilion merely to bring 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


229 

away the bouquets, which were few indeed, and scattered 
on the floor ; but Harry Kenric was moved by one of 
those occult impulses for which there is no explanation 
to relate to her a story, not of love but of adventure, a 
story that made her pulses beat wildly, and rendered 
her oblivious of the present. Marjorie's tender heart 
trembled with the fear that she might say something 
harsh to the young man who had beguiled the busy 
moments — or the moments that should have been busy ; 
but Marjorie need not have feared. Miss Penny could 
not forget that Harry Kenric was the son of his father, 
and she had, besides, that native weakness of a nature 
distinctly maternal, which always finds some excuse for 
a boy — of any age — while holding a girl strictly to 
account. She had no harsh words for Harry, but she 
said, frowning, as, on entering the paVilion her eyes 
lighted on the scattered flowers : 

“ Marjorie has grown so heedless. What a careless 
waste ! ” 

The thrifty farmer’s soul of her abhorred waste in any 
guise. 

Harry Kenric was bending his head over something 
that he held in his two hands, something that glinted 
in the moonlight, as he hastily slipped > into his pocket 
with a guilty start ; for he, too, had forgotten the bou- 
quets, and he thought that Miss Penny had come to de- 
mand the silver locket, a quaint, old-fashioned trinket 
with the letter L wrought in turquoise, which had slip- 
ped from Marjorie’s neck when she ran away and left 
her flowers. It was not his intention to return it through 
Miss Penny, and he made haste to convey it out of 
right, hoping that it had escaped her notice ; but as 
Miss Penny saw no reason why a young man who 
smoked cigars should not carry a silver match-safe in 
his pocket, the act made no impression upon her. She 
began gathering up the flowers with impatient haste, 
and Harry still anxious to divert her attention began 
eagerly to help her. “They are not wasted !” he said, 
thinking how lovely Marjorie had looked in their midst. 
Like Marjorie, he was possessed by a vague sense of 
something amiss, and he talked on with boyish extrav- 
agance, in his desire to propitiate Miss Penny. 

“ What a glorious night, Miss Lancaster ! On such 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


230 

nights as these I feel my blood tingle with the desire to 
do deeds that should live in poetry. If the occasion 
would only serve, I might do something great, but the 
occasion never comes.” 

“It is better to do with our might what our hands 
find to do.” said practical Miss Penny, straightening the 
stems of the flowers. 

“I suppose it is,” Harry assented. “Only, when a 
fellow is young, you see, he has his aspirations. Now 
my father went through the war, and had adventures that 
made life worth living.” 

Miss Penny glanced up quickly : did the young man 
mean to test her by this exordium? But no ; Harry 
looked serenely unconscious that she had any part in 
his father’s history. 

“He tells a thrilling story,” continued Harry, “of 
his being saved from capture by a rebel woman. I beg 
your pardon, but you know it makes the deed she did 
seem so much grander, to know that she was a rebel, 
and hated the Yankees.” 

“ How — how did you hear? ” blundered Miss Penny, 
with quick suspicion of her Uncle Joe. 

“Why, from my father, of course,” answered Harry, 
in some surprise, “ What is the matter, Miss Lancas- 
ter?” he asked, laughing. “ I suppose you must look 
upon her as a traitor, but to me she seems the bravest 
of the brave. ” 

“ Go on,” said Miss Penny. It was now her turn to 
forget the flowers. She sat down upon the bench, and 
never did mortal listen with so entranced attention to a 
story the hearer knew better than the reciter. 

“And what became of the woman?” she asked, 
when the story was ended. 

“ She is dead,” was the reply. 

With difficulty Miss Penny restrained herself. 

“ Dead?” she repeated. Now she understood, in a 
measure the long oblivion to which she had been con- 
signed.” How do you know that she is dead ? ” she asked, 
sharply. 

“ Oh, when the war ended, my father wrote to her, 
but never received an answer ; and then he wrote to 
some one in the town where she was living at the time 
of his rescue, and thus he learned that she was dead, ” 


PENNY LANCASTER , , PARMER . 


231 

“ And her name?” Miss Penny asked, strug-g-ling- to 
speak calmly. 

“ Her name was Rosser, Mrs. Rosser.” 

In spite of herself, Miss Penny started. 

“Why, Miss Lancaster !” exclaimed Harry, eagerly, 
“ Did you ever know any woman of that name ? ” 

“Yes,” Miss Penny sighed; but she was an old 
woman ; she could not have taken that midnight ride.” 

“ This was not an old woman. My father says he 
never knew any braver spirit than hers. Though she is 
dead, she is not forgotten.” 

“And is that all you know of her?” Miss Penny 
asked, with forced calm. 

“ That is all ; but isn’t that a great deal ? Hers was 
a deed to immortalize herself. ” 

“ And no man can point out her grave to-day ! ” said 
Miss Penny, with odd, harsh laughter. In the pleni- 
tude of her emotion Miss Penny felt as if she must re- 
veal herself, but wounded pride restrained this impulse. 
It hurt her to perceive that she had been remembered 
only as the heroine of a rescue that had been a good bit 
of adventure worth the telling, while Penny Lancaster, 
the Georgia tavern-girl, had not been deemed deserving 
of mention. Was it possible, she wondered, that Mor- 
rison Kenric was ashamed of that old friendship ? Or 
was it that he could not forgive himself that he once 
had asked her to be his wife? And how was it that 
now his son was under her roof, Morrison Kenric still 
ignored her ? “I will wait and see,” she sighed to her- 
self. 

Across her thoughts came Harry Kenric’s voice, say- 
ing : “ If I but knew where to find it, I would make a 
pilgrimage to her grave.” 

“ It wouldn't be a bad idea to raise a monument,” 
said Miss Penny, dryly. 

“I have thought of that,” he answered, turning 
towards her an earnest face. 

Miss Penny laughed. 

“You hate her for a traitor ! ” cried Harry, hotly. 

“No matter what I think of her,” said Miss Penny, 
calmly ; “ I’ll tell you the best way to honor her. For 
her sake, think well of Southern women ; for her sake, 
do not trifle with any woman’s heart.” 


232 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Lancaster?” 
Harry stammered. 

“I mean that Miss Wallis—” Miss Penny began, but 
Harry interrupted with a burst of boyish laughter. 

“What a joke!” he cried. “Why, Miss Wallis is 
going to marry my father. ” 

“Your father ? ” Miss Penny gasped. 

“ I don't suppose I ought to mention it,” said Harry, 
with sudden gravity; “ but you surprised me so.” And 
he laughed again. 

“Your father? Miss Penny repeated. “Oh!” She 
did not know what Harry said further ; but she started 
when she heard the tinkling of the tea-bell ; Marjorie, 
whom she had so harshly chided, was at the post of 
duty, but where was Miss Penny ? 

With a great sigh, she rose and went into the house. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

O, SUMMER NIGHT ! 

When all her little household duties were over, Mar- 
jorie hurried across the lawn to seek for her locket. On 
the floor of the pavilion lay the flowers — forgotten ; the 
sight of them gave the girl a little thrill of dismay. 
What could have happened that Miss Penny should 
forget anything concerning the business of the farm ? 
For aught that Marjorie could see, not a flower had 
been touched, and confident that the locket must be 
hidden among them, she turned over the fragrant heap, 
hurriedly at first, then more carefully ; but the strictest 
search failed to reveal her treasure, either among the 
flowers, or anywhere in the pavilion. If it had fallen 
somewhere on the lawn or among the flower-borders, 
it would be time lost, she thought, to seek for it until 
the morrow. But Marjorie did not return at once to 
the house ; little given though she was to folding her 
hands in idleness, she found it inexpressibly soothing 
to sit here alone in the stillness of the summer night, 


PENNY LANCASTER , , PARMER. 


233 

alone with that palpitating, uneasy heart of hers, which 
she did not yet understand. 

All things seemed suddenly new to Marjorie ; there 
were subtle meanings in the winking stars, in the sub- 
dued radiance of the moon, in the soft, vague, tentative 
sounds of the summer night ; faint chirpings and flut- 
terings, the susurrus of leaves near by, and the far-off 
woodland murmurs blended in harmonies never heard 
before. The fragrance of mignonette and heliotrope 
filled the garden, and her senses seemed to swoon in 
the languorous perfume of jasmine and tuberose that 
came on the wings of the wind, the fitful summer wind, 
driving the fleecy clouds across the dull blue vault, now 
veiling, now revealing the flood of silver light that 
bathed the lawn, and the little beds of riotous bloom. 

With a sense of intimate enjoyment never felt before, 
Marjorie, clasping her hands upon her tumultuous heart, 
closed her eyes to keep back the rising tears. She did 
not see Harry Kenric coming across the lawn, she did 
not know of his approach until he spoke. 

“ Marjorie ! ” was all he said ; and in an instant, Mar- 
jorie sprang up, trembling, but whether for joy or fear, 
she did not know. 

“I have lost my locket she faltered. Harry had 
paused upon the pavilion’s step, but now he came in. 
“ Did you prize it so very much? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, it was my mother’s sighed Marjorie. “And 
my father is so troubled at my losing it I hoped — I 
thought I might find it here. ” 

“It is not lost, Marjorie,” he said, in almost a whis- 
per. I found it — here where you came to look for it 
Why may I not keep it ? ” 

“Oh! ’’cried Marjorie. Relief, surprise, trouble, all 
mingled in that ejaculation. 

“See;” he went on, as he held out his hand with 
the locket in it. “I have it safe ; I won’t keep it with- 
out your consent ; but why may I not ? ” 

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t!” said Marjorie. I wear it 
always, it is so precious.” 

“ Marjorie,” he whispered, “it is because you hold 
it so precious, because you always wore it, that I covet 
it. ” 

She raised her eyes, and before either was aware, 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


234 

his arms were around her, and their lips had met, in 
a swift, half-frightened little kiss. Then Marjorie turned 
her head away, but Harry still clasped her in his arms. 
“Marjorie ! ” Marjorie ! ” he whispered. “I love you ! 
I love you, Marjorie ! ” Over and over again he said it, 
as if it were the one supreme truth he knew and com- 
prehended. 

Marjorie did not speak, she did not struggle to be re- 
leased, but she trembled like a leaf. 

“ Speak to me ! ” he entreated. “ Say you love me ! ” 

And now Marjorie understood what it was that all 
things had waited for, in the dewy hush of these sum- 
mer nights. It was not in her nature to do violence to 
the truth ; she lifted her head, she looked at him with 
her dove-like eyes, and answered, softly ; 

“ Yes ! I — love you ! ” 

But as she felt his arms clasp her more closely, she 
panted, “Oh, my father! Oh, my cousin ! ” Her heart 
ached with a sense of treason against those who had 
loved her longest, loved her first ; but Harry in that 
supreme moment thought only of the girl he held in his 
arms. Her face was turned from him, and hidden in 
her hands, while he covered her hair, her neck, her 
small ears with passionate kisses, and still Marjorie 
panted, “My father! my cousin ! ” 

“Ah, Marjorie,” said he, with love’s wisdom, “this 
moment is sacred to us two ; let not the thought of any 
other come between. Until now, we never lived ! Is 
it not so, dearest ? ” 

But Marjorie had lived so much for others, she did 
not know how to begin to live for 1 egoisme h deux. 
“ Your father?” she faltered. Alas how many adverse 
judgments threatened this new-born joy ! 

“My father shall be your father !” Harry declared, 
confidently. “ He will be so proud of you, Marjorie ! ” 

“ Of me ?” sighed Marjorie, with the plaintive incred- 
ulity of humility. “Ah, let me go !” she entreated. 
“You must never speak to me again as you have done 
to-night — until you hear from your father.” 

“ Oh, Marjorie ! Marjorie ! Dearer than life ! ” 

“Heloves you,” said Marjorie, the wise and prudent, 
“as well as my Daddy loves me — perhaps.” 

“Of course he does !” laughed Harry. “When I 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


235 

tell him that I love you as my life, that I will never love 
anyone else, that I cannot be happy unless you are my 
wife, he will open his arms, yes : and his heart to you, 
you shall see ! You may as well give me your promise 
now, Marjorie ? ” 

“ No, no,” panted Marjorie. “I’m afraid — I’m afraid 
of your father. And won’t you give me back my locket, 
please ? It is time for me to go in.” 

But Harry declared his purpose to keep it.” And 
wherefore should you go in, this heavenly night ? ” he 
entreated. 

“Daddy Joe will miss me! ” said Marjorie, breaking 
away from him. 

She found her Daddy Joe on the broad piazza, sitting 
apart from the others, and putting her arm over his 
drooping shoulders, she whispered : 

“The locket is found, my Daddy dear.” 

“ Ah ? ” said Mr. Joe, eagerly. “Where was it ? ” 

“ In the pavilion.” 

“Safe?” 

“Safe,’’ sighed Marjorie. 

Mr. Lancaster leaned his head caressingly against the 
strong young figure. “Listen,” he whispered; for 
Miss Wallis was singing to her guitar some heart-break- 
ing song of love and sorrow, and Mr. Lancaster had 
just awaked to enjoyment. 

But the singing ended at a reasonable hour. Miss 
Fish and Miss Wallis and Daddy Joe were too wise to 
encroach upon their night’s rest for any moonlight that 
ever flooded the earth. But on such a night, and after 
such a confession in the pavilion, what could a young 
lover do but sit in the moonlight and dream ? And 
Marjorie in her little room — she had had a room all to 
herself for the last two years — Marjorie spent half the 
night in prayer. She had reached a tremendous crisis 
in her life; how was slumber possible to her? 

Neither could Miss Penny sleep. She was not in love 
like Harry and Marjorie ; the moonlight had no charm 
to stay her eyelids from slumber, and she was tired 
with her busy day, and more tired still with the keen 
emotion through which she had passed, yet Miss Penny 
closed not her eyes that night. If it had been possible 
to decide upon a course of action, she could have made 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


236 

her plans and composed herself to her accustomed, un- 
broken rest ; but there was nothing to do but wait, and 
this waiting had in it an element of excitement that 
banished slumber. 

Memory Waits was in love, as deeply as Harry Ken- 
ric, and he too had had a moment of keen excitement 
when he spoke with Marjorie in the big store-room, but 
Memory Waits kept no vigils. This son of the soil slept 
his undreaming slumber, the sweet reward of honest 
toil — slept peacefully, in spite of the temptations of 
envy, hatred and malice that had visited him that even- 
ing, temptations fostered by the very texts he pondered. 
The moonlight never wooed him to wakeful brooding ; 
but under the broad sunshine of the morrow, in the 
open fields, as he went about his work, or rested in the 
hot noon-tide, Memory experienced all that persistency 
of wakeful thought prone to haunt the pillow of the 
sleepless. 

A man may be a poet, though he write never a line 
of verse ; and perhaps the most potent of all poetry is 
that which finds no expression, but lives vaguely, yet 
keenly, in emotions that have no name To Memory 
Waits was given a passionate, melancholy tempera- 
ment, developed and fostered by solitary communings 
with nature. Sometimes he fancied that he heard the 
great heart of Mother Earth beat in the silent hills ; 
sometimes the winds and the waters seemed sentient 
things, speaking to him strange messages of a wisdom 
denied to other mortals. The trees of the wood, the 
corn in the fields, all growing things, and the very clods 
beneath his feet, possessed a life that he could feel and 
believe in, but could not make others understand. 
The mysterious dawn with its irresistible summons to 
all nature, the inevitable sunset vetoing labor, and dis- 
missing man and beast and herb to darkness inexorable, 
spoke to him unutterable things concerning mans des- 
tiny and doom. Memory was, in fact, a pagan and a 
poet while he thought himself a Christian and a sage. 
He read his Bible in the woods and in the fields, putting 
interpretations out of his own experience upon the texts 
that took possession of his vivid imagination. He held 
the distinction of exhorter and class-leader in the Meth- 
odist meeting-house down the road, where, every 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER 


237 

Sunday his voice ascended in fervid and strangely elo- 
quent petitions, for blessings upon the harvest, the 
springing corn, the wind-shaken fruit-trees, and the igno- 
rant dumb beasts, towards which last he had an exceed- 
ing compassion. Very different were the petitions he 
offered for mankind ; sometimes entreating that God’s 
wrath might be averted, but oftenest praying that ven- 
geance might swiftly overtake the sinner. For in 
Memory’s sight, all men and women deserved unspar- 
ing condemnation. Yet himself he held as one of the 
elect who could not sin ; and all mankind, he thought, 
might by prayer and fasting, and a life in communion 
with nature, become even as he was. He believed that 
the agrestic life was the life God designed for man ; 
cities he looked upon as the natural result of the sin 
that came into the world by Eve’s transgression. 

Miss Penny, following the tradition of the Donalds, 
was a Presbyterian, and since the erection of a big, 
white church, built after the Doric pattern — though the 
native Briarvillians knew not its likeness to a heathen 
temple — she preferred to worship in the town ; but 
Marjorie and Mr. Lancaster went often to the weather- 
beaten, barn-like edifice over the hill. It was within 
easy walking distance, and they liked to please Memory 
Waits, whose promptness to bring the doctor when 
Marjorie was ill, they gratefully remembered. In the 
estimation of the congregation, Mr. Lancaster was a 
nonenity — alas, poor Gentleman Joe ! — but Marjorie 
commanded the eyes of all the youth, and inspired 
Memory’s most fervid eloquence. The first time he be- 
held this beauteous vision of girlhood was under the 
roof of this roadside meeting-house, and from that day 
he had loved her with the certainty that she was des- 
tined in the fullness of time for him, and he, for her. 
Yet, despite this certainty, he was not free from the 
jealousy that waits upon love. He consumed his heart 
in bitterness against Miss Penny that she had admitted 
this man of the city’s life to Marjorie’s daily company — 
a man despised in Memory’s eyes for his ignorance of 
God’s wonderful earth, ignorance of all that lore open to 
Memory Waits in the fields and woods, beside the 
water-courses, and under the varying sky. It did not 
hurt Memory’s pride to remember that he had learned to 


238 PENNY LANCASTER^ FARMER. 

read and write under Marjorie’s tuition ; he has bur- 
dened by no sense of inferiority in the knowledge that 
her acquaintance with books far exceeded his ; for all 
such learning was of man’s invention ; the wisdom of 
the Spirit was the gift of God, and Memory doubted not 
that this wisdom was his. He did not recognize his 
feeling toward Harry Kenric as jealousy; he felt it to 
be a righteous indignation against the interference of 
puny man with the divine ordering of Providence. 
What had Harry Kenric by right, to do with Marjorie, 
or Marjorie with Harry Kenric? They were not made 
for each other. 

These thoughts were his as he went a-field next day ; 
and when the noon-tide rest came, he sat down, for a 
few moments, upon a stump in the fence corner, and 
took out the little worn Bible he habitually carried. He 
did not open it at random, as in any ordinary perplexity 
he would have done, but with predetermined judgment, 
he read again the verses that had given him comfort the 
night before, and he read them aloud : 

“ For thou hast girded me with strength unto the 
battle : thou hast subdued under me those that rose up 
against me. 

“ Thou hast given me the necks of mine enemies : that 
I might destroy them that hate me." 

Closing the book, he meditated a few moments ; and 
presently, taking off his hat, he ejaculated, with great 
fervor, “Amen ! and Amen ! ” 

Then with hands outspread and eyes uplifted, he 
prayed : 

“Even so, 0 Lord, according to Thy will. Behold, 

I am but an instrument in thy hands to accomplish thy 
purpose of aforetime ; and behold, I am strong for 
Thou hast girded me. I await Thy time ; O Lord, make 
no long tarrying.” 

Miss Fish devoted that morning to letter-writing. In 
the afternoon she asked for Miss Penny’s phaeton, and 
one of Harry Kenric’s horses, and invited Miss Wallis 
to drive her into town. She wished to post her letter 
with her own hands, and also she wished to unburden 
her mind to Miss Wallis. 

“Anastasia ! ” she exclaimed, when they were well 
on the road, “I am disturbed in my mind about 


PENN)? LANCASTER , FARMER . 239 

Harry. Miss Lancaster will certainly marry him to that 
girl. See how ridiculously she coddles him ! Cream 
and fresh eggs. ” 

“ I'm sure we have cream and fresh eggs too/’ Miss 
Wallis reminded her. 

“Yes ; but there’s a difference. Something ought to 
be done.” 

“About the cream and fresh eggs?” Miss Wallis 
asked with demure malice. 

“Nonsense, Anastasia! Don’t be absurd. You 
know very well that I am referring to that girl. I sug- 
gested to Miss Lancaster that it would be a good idea 
to foster a match between the girl and that young man 
with the unusual name.” 

“Oh, surely you didn't P” exclaimed Miss Wallis, 
with amusement and dismay. “What did she say 
to you ? ” 

“She had the impertinence to tell me not to trouble 
myself,” said Miss Fish, indignantly. “ I should have 
left the house that instant but for Harry.” 

“And Harry would not have cared in the least,” Miss 
Wallis declared, laughing. “A bold woman is Miss 
Lancaster, to defy Miss Fish.” 

“I am not goingaway to leave the boy to her mercy, 
never!” Miss Fish announced, with decision. “And 
as for you, Anastasia, I wonder you don’t see that it is 
your duty to write to Morrison about his son’s danger.” 

“ Pardon me, Miss Fish ; I told you, long ago, that I 
should never interfere with Harry, and I must remind 
you that I do not intend to be a spy upon Mr. Kenric’s 
son. ” 

Miss Fish was growing angry. “Very well, then,” 
she retorted, with a kind of hard emphasis ; “I have to 
inform you that / have written. I will trouble you to 
drive by the post-office, for I wish my letter to go by 
the next mail.” 

They had just reached the outskirts of the little town, 
but Miss Wallis, instead of driving on, checked the 
horse in the middle of the road, and looked at Miss Fish 
in silence, a moment ; at last : 

“You have written Mr. Kenric, what, may I ask? ” 

The question was put with the most insinuating grace, 
but her voice had a determined ring that made Miss 


240 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


Fish exceedingly uncomfortable ; nevertheless, she in- 
sisted, vehemently : 

“ I am his friend, an old, old friend of the family ; it 
is my duty.” 

“Have you written him to come here ? ” 

“Why not? You surely cannot object to his 
coming ? ” 

“Ido object, most decidedly; the letter must not 
go,” Miss Wallis declared quietly enough, but the color 
rose to her forehead. 

Miss Fish was so angry that for a moment she could 
not speak. She did not wish to offend Miss Wallis, for 
she was anxious to maintain the position she had 
always claimed, of adviser-general in the Kenric con- 
nection ; but she wished also to have her own way. 
Presently she began to laugh harshly. “ Is it possible 
that you are unwilling to have him meet Miss Lan- 
caster ? ” she asked, with almost a sneer. 

“Precisely,” Miss Wallis returned, in cool and even 
tones. “That is what I object to.” But as she spoke, 
her color deepened. 

Miss Fish stared. She had asked the question with- 
out dreaming there was any truth in the suggestion. 
“ Ridiculous ! ridiculous !” she exclaimed, rather as if 
commenting to herself. Then she demanded, sharply : 
“ How long do you mean to wait here in the middle of 
the road, Anastasia ? ” 

“Until this question is settled,” replied Miss Wallis, 
with imperturbable calm.” I wish you to understand 
that I will not consent to have your letter go to Mr. 
Kenric.” 

“It seems to me,” said Miss Fish, haughtily, “that I 
have a right to conduct my own correspondence accord- 
ing to my own ideas.” 

“Not when it concerns me,” replied Miss Wallis, un- 
moved. “ I cannot, of course, say you shall not send 
any letter you choose to send ; but if you write for Mr. 
Kenric to come here. I will write to Judge Wallis to ex- 
pect me immediately.” 

Never, perhaps, had Miss Fish been so angry ; but 
she knew that Anastasia meant what she said, and after 
a short struggle with herself, she silently held out her 
hand, with the letter in it 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


24I 


‘‘Thank you,” said Miss Wallis, gravely. 

She slipped the letter into her pocket and drove on. 
They had passed through the town, and had entered the 
road beyond, before either spoke again. Then Miss 
Wallis asked, abruptly : 

“ Have you ever written Mr. Kenric about — this Miss 
Lancaster ? ” 

“Certainly not. Why should I? That episode is 
best forgotten. Morrison has buried it in oblivion. You 
have nothing to fear, you absurd creature. ” * 

“Oh, you know nothing whatever about it, Miss 
Fish ! ” Miss Wallis exclaimed, impatiently. “ Suppose 
Harry should refresh his fathers memory by the men- 
tion of her name ? ” 

“Oh, we know what Harry's letters are; a brief 
statement of the number of pounds he has gained or 
lost, a rhapsody on his horses, a request for money, 
perhaps. Possibly he has stated that he is on a farm ; 
voila tout. It is so utterly preposterous that you should 
be jealous of this Miss Lancaster ! ” 

“Excuse me; I am not in the least jealous of ‘this 
Miss Lancaster’. ” 

“Then suppose Morrison Kenric should come of his 
own accord ? ” Miss Fish asked, hopefully. 

“If he comes of his own accord,” Miss Wallis 
answered, slowly, “ I should — ‘accept the situation. ’ ” 
Suddenly, she burst out laughing. “It would be what 
dramatists call a ‘situation,’ wouldn’t it? ” she said. 

“ Ridiculous ! ” ejaculated Miss Fish. 

“Well, let us wait and see, Miss Fish. Perhaps 
Harry will be satisfied to leave, after he has attended 
this camp-meeting he is so curious about. But oh, I 
wish, how I wish none of us had ever come here, had 
ever heard of this place ! ” she cried passionately. 


242 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

KIMBERLY BRIDGE. 

In the glow of summer-time, when the corn is ripen* 
ing in the sunshine, and rain, and dew, and the harvest 
is waiting the will of the Lord, as Memory Waits was 
wont to say, the work of the farmer is not heavy. At 
this season of leisure the people of Kimberly and the 
adjacent region were accustomed to hold their annual 
camp-meeting. Kimberly is a small settlement among 
the hills, about twenty miles distant from Briarville. 
From his early youth Memory Waits had been a regular 
attendant at this camp-meeting, where he enjoyed no 
small distinction by reason of his wild and fervid elo- 
quence, his great store of Bible texts, and his reputation 
for sanctity ; moreover, the ungodly who also assembled 
there in great numbers to gather news, to talk crops, 
and also, if possible, to get religion, held Memory in 
high esteem on account of his natural gift with the divin- 
ing rod, and his ability in prognosticating the weather. 
And Memory Waits was human ; he loved the admira- 
tion of the profane quite as well, perhaps, as the esteem 
of the saints. To forego the camp-meeting, and the ad- 
ulation that there awaited him, was an act of self-denial 
that he practised, this summer, for the first time, taking a 
secret comfort in the certainty that he should be missed. 
But Harry Kenric, from the moment he heard of the 
camp-meeting, was bent upon going. The rapturous 
excitement characteristic of such gatherings had an 
irresistible fascination for him, in his youthful keenness 
to see all phases of life. 

To his surprise, he could find no one disposed to join 
his expedition. Miss Fish, who had a lofty disdain for 
* ‘ the mob of the redeemed,” said “No,” with decision 
and dignity; Miss Wallis “had been once”; Gentle- 
man Joe who loved his easy-chair, thought the ride too 
long ; and Memory Waits had not felt the Call of the 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 243 

Spirit. Memory was ready, however, to give Harry all 
needful information about the route. 

There were two roads : the nearer way was by Kimber- 
ly Bridge, over Cedar Roaring, a narrow, but deep and 
dangerous stream ; another, and a better road, avoided 
the creek, but made the journey some miles longer. 
Memory would give no advice, he left Harry to his own 
choice ; but when Harry decided to go by the longer 
route, he went a few miles with him, to put him upon 
the right course, and gave him a map of his own draw- 
ing by which he could find his way back by Kimberly 
Bridge, it he should decide to return that way. 

Harry rose with the lark, and breakfasted with Miss 
Penny and Marjorie, Memory Waits and the two lads, 
Memory’s cousins, who helped about the farm. It was 
necessary to make an early start, as he wished to return 
that night. He drove two horses in a buggy with a top, 
preferring this mode of travelling to horseback, as it 
saved him the fatigue of carrying an umbrella. 

When he was gone, Marjorie was half-frightened to 
find what a difference his absence made. Though hard- 
ly one little week had passed since that happy hour in 
the pavilion when he made confession of his love, and 
though from that hour she had been so shy of him as 
hardly to allow him an opportunity for another whis- 
pered word, he had become so much a part of her life 
that the house, for her, was empty without him ; and 
the hours, busy though they were, went slowly by. A 
feeling of depression, of which she was ashamed, but 
which she could not conquer, weighed upon her heart. 

In the afternoon Dr. Griffith called. It had been some 
days since the Doctor made a visit to the farm, but he 
had come early, to make amends, and it was understood 
that he would stay to tea. The Doctor was a favorite 
at the farm : Miss Penny and her uncle always received 
him hospitably ; Marjorie always welcomed him with a 
kiss ; Miss Fish condescended to be entertained by him, 
and Miss Wallis declared openly that he was delightful. 
In this pleasant company more than an hour slipped by 
before the Doctor bethought himself to ask for Harry 
Kenric. 

“Why, he has gone to Kimberly Camp-meeting,” 
Miss Wallis informed him, gayly. “ Nothing of the 


244 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


kind has he ever seen, and he was off before day, with 
a two-horse team, in search of a new experience. " 

“ Gone alone? ” 

“Oh, yes. His man has leave of absence for the 
present. Although he tried to beat up recruits, I rather 
think Harry enjoys the freedom of going alone.’' 

“He hasn’t gone by Kimberly Bridge, I hope ? ” asked 
the Doctor with some anxiety. 

“No; I think not. Did he go by Kimberly Bridge, 
Miss Lancaster?" 

“No," said Miss Penny ; “he went the lower road." 

“ What is the matter with Kimberly Bridge ? ” Marjorie 
asked, from behind Mr. Lancaster’s chair. 

“Unsound, ricketty," answered the Doctor, turning 
half way round to look at her. Then he turned back 
again, saying in his spasmodic way, “Might bear a 
foot-passenger, or even a horse and rider, But risky. 
Two horses and a buggy — " And the Doctor shook 
his head. “Glad he took the lower road.” 

“ Why, so are we," Miss Wallis assentd cheerfully. 

Marjorie slipped away unnoticed. The sun was be- 
hind the hills, but the flush of sunset still lingered in 
the sky, where one or two stars shone faintly through a 
rift in the fleece-like clouds. Across the yard and 
through the vineyard went Marjorie, with hurryingsteps 
to the field where she knew Memory was to be found. 
She had not gone far when she saw him returning from 
his work. He wore no coat, and he carried his hoe 
across his shoulder. The sight of Marjorie coming to 
seek him sent an exultant thrill through every fibre of 
his frame. He stopped short, for an instant, and drew 
a deep breath with the satisfying thought that this was 
the first result of Harry Kenric’s absence : Maijorie had 
come to meet him ! 

“Memory,” she said, clasping her hands, as if in 
supplication, “did you know that Kimberly Bridge is 
unsafe, . dangerously unsafe ? Dr. Griffith says so. ” 
Her voice trembled, and her face was pale, in spite of 
the rapidity of her walk. 

“ Yes ; I knew it,” said Memory calmly. 

The color came again to Marjorie’s face and she 
smiled. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


245 

“ Ah, then,” she said with a sigh of infinite relief, “he 
will not return that way, for you warned him ! ” 

Lying and subterfuge were not among the faults of 
Memory Waits ; if Marjorie should suffer in learning 
the truth, it was the discipline of the Lord, and he had 
nothing to do with it ; he proceeded therefore to give 
her the truth with great deliberation. He took the hoe 
from his shoulder and leaned upon it like a staff ; fixing 
his large, luminous dark eyes, gleaming like stars, upon 
Maijorie’s face, and tuning his voice to that sonorous 
monotony he was wont to use in the meeting-house, he 
said : 

‘ ‘ Wherefore should I warn him ? Behold he is in the 
hands of the living God ; let Him do with His puny 
creatures as seemeth Him best I left him free to 
choose. ” 

“ Oh, most gracious God ! ” cried Marjorie, recoiling 
violently. The blood seemed to freeze in her veins. 
She was as much horrified at Memory’s criminal reti- 
cence, as at Harry Kenric’s danger. “ And if he should 
choose the bridge ! That swift and cruel water ! Oh, 
go ! Go at once ! Ride for life and death ! It may 
yet be time to save him, and to save your own soul, 
Memory, from the stain of human blood.” 

She wrung her hands with wild entreaty, but Memory 
remained unmoved. 

“ Ye ain’t experienced religion, Marjorie,” he said, 
coldly; “ye don’t know nothin' ’bout the will o’ the 
Lord. Behold, this son of perdition went forth to scoff 
and to jest at the people of God, and what punishment 
shall be meted out to him ? A swift judgment shall 
overtake him. If he chooses the bridge, it is the Lord’s 
will ; and the Lord’s will be done.” 

In an instant, Marjorie was transformed by his words ; 
the dove-like gentleness that clothed her looks, her 
speech, her actions, forsook her all at once. She flew 
at him fiercely, she grasped him by the collar of the 
blue homespun shirt he wore, and shook him with all 
her strength. “ Fiend ! ” she cried, hoarsely. “ Will 
you save him ? ” 

“ The Lord’s will be done ! ” repeated Memory, coldly, 
though a rage of jealousy consumed him. 

Marjorie dropped her hands. “You are no better 


246 PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 

than a murderer,” she said: but as she turned to leave 
him, “Oh, Memory; she sobbed out bitterly, “ I trusted 
you fully.” 

Memory did not stir hand or foot ; he remained lean- 
ing on his hoe, staring after the girl, who ran, with a 
fawn-like fleetness, down the long path beside the fur- 
rows, and disappeared among the corn. She had taken 
the shortest way to the stable, and presently he saw her 
come forth mounted on Harry Kenric’s own saddle- 
horse, and ride off, at a gallop, along the path that led 
to the pasture. 

“ Marjorie ! ” he shouted to her. “ Marjorie ! ” 

But she did not heed. The gate that led to the pasture 
was open, and she dashed through, and soon was lost 
in the shadows of the wood. 

Memory stood paralyzed. He comprehended, at 
once, what she would do. Kimberly Bridge was five 
miles away, but Marjorie had taken a more direct route 
through the woods. And all at once, the meaning of 
the words she had spoken pierced its way to his be- 
clouded brain : Had he then mistaken the word of the 
Lord P was the maddening question that repeated itself 
continually to his surging thoughts, and her parting 
words rang in his ears with bitter mockery. He dropped 
his hoe and dashed his hands against his face. “God 
has forsaken me,” he cried aloud, “if she rides on to 
death ! ” 

The next instant he was running along the same path 
that Marjorie had taken, making the straightest way to 
the stable. 

With hands shaking like leaves in the blast, he thrust 
a bridle upon the head of Miss Penny’s sturdy cart 
horse, and mounted without a saddle. 

“I’m off for Kimberly Bridge ! ” he shouted to the 
two plough-boys, as he passed them returning from 
work. 

They did not know in the least what it meant ; but 
as he rode at full speed, they fancied he might have re- 
ceived a sudden call of the Spirit to attend camp-meet- 
ing, and they mentioned their surmise to Cinthy in the 
kitchen. 

Cinthy, in the full belief that their surmise was cor- 
rect, told Miss Penny ; but Miss Penny did not accept 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


247 


any such explanation of Memory’s furious riding ; she 
understood, without words, that there was danger, and 
she acted with her accustomed promptitude. She took 
Dr. Griffith quietly aside, and told him of Memory’s 
sudden departure, gave him a cup of coffee, and be- 
sought him to ride without delay to Kimberly Bridge. 
Then with a provident instinct, she made the two 
plough-boys harness the mules to the wagon and bade 
them follow the Doctor, taking with them a mattress 
and blankets, and brandy and ropes, and hatchets and 
saws : and having done what she could, she sat down 
in silence to bear her anxiety alone. Not until then did 
she miss Marjorie, and missing her, she understood at 
once that it was Dr. Griffith’s statement that had given 
the alarm. 

Meantime, Marjorie, urging her horse to his utmost 
speed, was far upon the way to Kimberly Bridge. She 
had saved half the distance by following this trail 
through the dim wood which she hardly knew, but in 
which she seemed to be guided by love’s divine inspi- 
ration. 

The moon was just rising when she came out upon 
the road, and the sky was covered with a fleece of 
clouds that dimmed the starlight, yet Marjorie’s strain- 
ing vision descried the crude arch still spanning the 
chasm above the turbulent waters that babbled cruelly 
of danger and death to her shuddering sense. In the 
depths of the wood, the screech-owl and the whip-poor- 
will clamored at intervals against the silence, and once 
a fox barked in the vague distance. Never before had 
Marjorie been in so lonely a spot; yet who that is fired 
by a great purpose ever felt alone ? 

The first sight of the bridge assured her that either 
Harry Kenric had passed over in safety, or that he still 
was riding to his death — unless he had taken the other 
road to return. 

She checked her horse and bent her head to listen : 
from beyond the bridge came distinctly the sound of 
wheels against the gravel, and behind her, farther away 
she heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs beating the 
ground in desperate. haste, and she knew that Memory 
Waits had followed her. 

JMo creature of the forest, crossing her path from out 


248 PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 

the shadows could have inspired her with the terror that 
Memory’s approach awakened in her heart. The trust 
she had reposed in him was dead, and in its place a 
dread unspeakable energized all her efforts. In the be- 
lief that Harry Kenric’s safety depended upon herself 
alone, she sprang from her horse and rushed upon the 
bridge. A buggy drawn by two horses and carrying a 
single passenger had just entered upon the other end : 
there needed no words to tell Marjorie who the passen- 
ger was. 

Already she could hear the timbers cracking, could 
feel the high-swung fabric swaying with the impulse 
her own light weight had given it 

“Back!” she shouted shrilly, with uplifted arms. 
“ Back in Heaven’s name, or you are lost ! The bridge 
is unsafe ! ” 

At the sudden apparition of this figure all in white, 
the horses reared and plunged, and Harry Kenric, with 
the instinct of self-preservation, dropped the reins and 
jumped from the buggy. In that same instant Marjorie 
felt herself caught in a powerful grasp and swung back 
into the road. 

Memory Waits had thrown her from the bridge just 
in time. There followed instantly a terrific crash, that 
to Marjorie’s tortured senses seemed to last for ages, a 
frantic scream from the horses as they plunged down 
to death, a murderous turmoil of the waters — sounds 
that the echoes gave back with lingering mockery — 
and then silence, awful silence, save for the remorseless 
babble of the stream. 

Marjorie had put her hands over her ears to shut out 
the maddening sounds, and for an instant her senses 
reeled ; but when that dreadful silence came, she 
started up, crying wildly : 

“Harry! Harry! Answer me!” 

She believed him whelmed in the waters and gone 
from her forever, yet it seemed to her that his fleeting 
spirit must linger to give her back some response. Of 
Memory at that moment she did not think at all ; but 
the only answer that came back to her cry was a tremu- 
lous moan — just at her feet it sounded — and she knew 
that it came from Memory Walts. 

A shuddering horror seized her as she heard, a fierce, 


PENNY LANCASTER^ FARMER. 249 

vindictive hatred of this poor fellow took possession of 
her, making her almost glad of his suffering, even 
though she loathed herself for such a sentiment. 

Stunned and bewildered, she fell upon her knees, the 
only expression possible of a prayer that could find no 
words, hardly, even, coherent thought Presently she 
heard again Memory’s piteous moan, and staggered 
once more to her feet, shuddering still, but impelled 
by a wild, unreasoning desire to look down into the 
remorseless waters — her lover’s grave. 

The moon had struggled free of the clouds just then, 
and as the girl stood upon the giddy brink, holding by 
some bushes rooted there, she beheld, in the pale, weird 
light flooding the opposite bank, a sight that made her 
heart leap to her lips. It was the body of a man lying 
motionless beside the water’s edge, upon the little strip 
of level ground at the foot of the bluff. Until then, 
Marjorie unconsciously had hoped in Harry Kenric’s 
escape. A cry of despair burst from her lips. “ Dead ! 
Dead ! ” she wailed, and wrung her hands : but only 
the echoes answered. 

And then she thought of Memory — of Memory who 
perhaps had repented, and had wished to save. Creep- 
ing along the bank of the stream, she threw herself upon 
the ground, and leaned far over the edge where she 
could peer under the broken timbers, and there she be- 
held Memory Waits suspended in mid-air among the 
beams that still held in place, but yet might fall at any 
moment. 

She did not think of calling for aid ; she was hardly 
conscious where she was ; she seemed to live only in 
the agonizing certainty that Harry Kenric was dead, 
and that Memory Waits had consented to his death. 

“Memory ! Memory 1” she cried, bitterly. “He is 
dead ! dead ! He will never speak again ! He does 
not answer when I call. Why did you not let me go 
down with him ? ” 

Memory answered by a heart-rending groan, that 
awoke a divine compassion in Marjorie’s breast “God 
help me to forgive you ! ” she faltered ; and then, for the 
first time, she thought of calling aloud for help. But 
when her shrill, sharp cry smote the stillness, only echo 
answered, while the restless waters seemed to mock at 


2 50 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


her despair. Again she repeated her frantic call, rising 
to her feet for a more vigorous utterance ; for all at once 
had come the hope that Harry Kenric might be only 
stunned by his fall. 

This time there came an answering shout from a pair 
of stentorian lungs on the other side of the stream ; and 
presently appeared, on the opposite bank, a tall, power- 
fully built man, accompanied by a slip of a lad. 

“My God!” exclaimed the man. “ Ef Kimberly 
Bridge ain’t busted ! An’ thar’s a woman over thar ! 
Onless it’s a sperrit. ” 

At this the lad took to his heels, and the man burst out 
laughing. 

“Oh, stay and help ! ” pleaded Marjorie, shrilly, as 
she beat the air with her hands. “Mr. Kenric has fal- 
len over the bluff, don’t you see ? Perhaps he isn’t 
killed ! Try, try to do something for him ! ” 

“My Lawd ! Ef it ain’t Marjorie Lancaster!” the 
man ejaculated. But it was no time for explanations. 
Running swiftly along the edge of the bluff to a spot 
where the slope was less abrupt, he scrambled down, 
as fast as rocks and bushes would allow, and in a few 
seconds was stooping over Harry Kenric. 

“He ain’t dead ! ” he shouted, presently. “He’s a- 
comin’ to ! ” 

Marjorie burst into tears. 

The man, as he turned and looked up to shout to her, 
had caught sight of a dark body under the broken tim- 
bers. “Hello!” he cried. “That another one up 
there, under the bridge ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Marjorie, who could hardly speak 
for sobbing. “ Memory Waits.” 

“ Mem’ry Waits ? A devil of a fix ! ” ejaculated the 
man ; and forthwith, to Marjorie’s dismay, he began to 
scramble up the bank by the way he had got down. 

Marjorie, in despair at this- desertion, shouted again 
for help, and once again there came an answering shout, 
this time from Dr. Griffith, who, in a few moments 
more, rode up, his horse flecked with foam. 

The Doctor sprang to the ground, and rushed to 
where Marjorie was standing on the bank. Excitement 
made his brusque. “Talk quick!” he cried, seizing 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 2 5 1 

her by the arm, almost roughly. “What’s happened? 
The bridge ? . Who’s hurt ? ” 

“ Both,” said Marjorie, wringing her hands. 

“ Don’t be a fool ! Both who ? Both what ?” 

“ Harry Kenric .over there, and Memory here, under 
the bridge. Oh, is there no way, no way to get to 
him ? ” 

Marjorie was thinking of Harry Kenric ; but with the 
Doctor, it was “first come, first served.” He threw 
himself upon the ground, just as Marjorie had done, 
and peered over at the wreck of the bridge. “ Um ! ” he 
said, jumping up and dusting his knees with his big 
riding-gloves. “Bad case. Confound those fellows ! 
Why don't they hurry up? One man can’t extricate 
him.” 

Once more he threw himself on the ground, and peered 
under the broken timbers, to say to Memory, “Take 
heart, my poor fellow ; Miss Penny is sending the boys ; 
we’ll soon have you out of there. But I’ll be hanged if I 
see how it’s to be done,” he grumbled to himself, as he 
rose again. Then he lifted up his voice in a shout that 
made the woods ring. 

He was answered by a shout close at hand, that did 
not come from Miss Penny’s plough-boys, and crashing 
through the bushes across the road appeared the stal- 
wart farmer who had scrambled down the bank to 
Harry Kenric. 

Marjorie uttered a little cry of astonishment. 

“Hello!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Eben Johnson, 
by all that’s lucky. Don’t you live on t’other side ? 
How the devil did you get across ?” 

“ Foot-log,” answered Johnson, with laconic brevity. 

“ Foot-log?” repeated the Doctor, staring. It was in- 
credible that a foot-log should span this stream. 

“ Foot-log, I said, sir,” Johnson assured him, grinning, 
“ Don’t believe me, go see for yo’self. ’Bout fifty yards 
above, whar them rocks they call the Big Brothers 
splits the waters. Thar’s a rotten plank or two acrost 
in the lesser rocks on this side, an’ a log from the big 
rock in the middle to the bluff on t’other. Like a rope 
in the a’r but I’m usened to it. T’other man over thar 
stunned,” he informed the doctor, jerking his thumb 
over his shoulder in the direction of the spot where 


252 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

Harry Kenric lay. “But I reckin he’ll come round. 
Bad fix, eh, Doc ? ” 

The doctor shook his head gloomily. 

“ Well, to be shore,” proceeded Johnson, garrulously, 
“ me ’n my half-sister’s boy, Luke, was out atter a mink, 
an thar come a yell like all Gabriel abroad ; fair made 
my haT rise, sir ; an’ then thar was a lesser screech, 
only a gal could a give ; an’ with that me ’n Luke come 
a-tiltin ; but Luke, when he glimpsed the gal in the 
moonlight, clipped it for home. Haw, Haw ! Took 
her for a sperrit ! Haw, Haw ! How you reckon it 
happened, Doc ? ” he asked, with sudden sobriety. 

“How the devil should I know?” returned the Doc- 
tor, with angry impatience. “Can’t you do anything 
but talk ? Here’s Memory Waits caught under these 
timbers — and the question is, How to get him out alive.” 

Johnson, in his turn, got down upon the ground, 
and peered over. “It mought be did,” he announced, 
presently, supporting himself on his elbow to look up at 
the Doctor, then leaning farther over, to get a better 
view. “I say! Mem’ry,” he called out, “Can’t ye 
help yo’sell none? Try to sorter git a purchase and 
hyst yo’self a bit” 

“ I’m — all — jammed in,” panted Memory, faintly. 

“Well, to be shore, we’d need a rope, and hatchets, 
and saws,” said Johnson, taking another look. 

“ Hatches and saws,” repeated Memory, with a 
groan. “‘By terrible things — in righteousness — shalt 
thou answer us, O Lord. In righteousness.’ ” 

“He ain’t so fur gone, ’’remarked Johnson, hopefully, 
as he rose up ; “he kin quote Scripture. I mought take 
yo’ horse, Doc, an’ gallop over to Maxwell’s, that’s the 
nearest place.” 

“ No,” interrupted the Doctor, “they’re coming with 
ropes and hatchets, and everything needful. Penny 
Lancaster thought of it all. Wonderful woman.” 

“ Good land ! ” ejaculated Johnson. “ She ain’t heard 
that yell, plum' three miles away, as the crow hies?” 

“No time for explanations, sir,” said the Doctor, 
curtly. “ Here is the wagon, at last, thank God ! We 
must to work.” 

Then the Doctor fell to berating the two plough-boys, 
who were dragging everything from the wagon, in a 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 253 

panic of haste. ‘ * So confounded slow when lives are 
at stake ! Mind what you are about ! Where are you 
going ? What you going to do ? ” he cried, sharply. 

The two lads didn’t in the least know what to do ; 
they stood still and stared helplessly. 

“Fools ! ” said the Doctor. 

Johnson gave a short laugh. “Reckin you air mo' 
use in a case o' broken bones, Doc, than broken 
bridges,” he said, sententiously, as he pulled off his 
jacket. “ 'Thout boastin', Eben Johnson's the best man 
for this business, an' I'll take the risk for Mem'ry, seein' it 
was by his preachin' I was converted. Gimme the 
rope 'bout my middle, boys, and make hit fast to 
thisher tree ; an' don't nobody pester me with directions, 
but jest all hands obey my orders.” 

It so happened that this end of the bridge was still 
sufficiently secure to afford a precarious foothold. By 
using great caution, Johnson was enabled to saw and 
cut away the broken timbers among which Memory 
Waits was so cruelly jammed ; but the hardest work of 
this most difficult and dangerous undertaking was draw- 
ing the poor fellow up to terra firma. For Memory could 
not help himself at all, and it was impossible to move 
him from his perilous position without causing him ex- 
quisite suffering, so that he called out in agony to let 
him go down to death ; and when at last they had him 
safely deposited in the wagon, he swooned away. 


254 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FORGIVE AND FORGET. 

“Well ! That job’s done, thank the Lord! ” ejacu- 
lated Johnson. “ Now for t’other one.” 

The Doctor started violently. In his excitement about 
Memory Waits he had utterly forgotten Harry Kenric. 

“And Marjorie — Where is Marjorie?” hedemanded, 
looking around in alarm. 

Johnson turned about, frightened likewise ; but pres- 
ently he cried out, throwing up his arms : 

“By the Lord! Look yonder, Doc! Ef she ain’t 
crossed that crazy foot-log an’ got to him, wish I may 
die ! Thar’s grit, boys ! ” And he sent up a cheer in which 
the two plough-boys and the Doctor joined lustily. 

It was, indeed, true. The moment Marjorie heard the 
foot-log described, she had darted away, obeying a 
swift and prescient impulse that led her unerringly, 
through tangled brush and brier, tearing her face and 
hands, until she came to that precarious passage over 
rocks and bubbling water. In cooler moments her head 
must have reeled but to stand upon that narrow pathway 
high in air ; but now she was conscious only that she 
was going to him she loved, and the safety that waits 
upon somnambulism attended her footsteps. It seemed 
to her an eternity before she found the little path along 
the bluffleading to the point where she had seen John- 
son descend, and yet it had taken her less time than the 
cool-headed Johnson required to make the same trip. 
Undismayed, she climbed down the declivity, and she 
had reached the spot where Harry lay half-unconscious, 
just as the wagon arrived on the other side. 

With faint, breathless cries of grief, of joy, of hope 
and dread, she bent over him, and felt his heart which 

was feebly beating, yet — did her hopes deceive her? it 

beat stronger at every pulse. She bowed her face to his 
and discerned that he still breathed, and then she gently 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


255 

lifted his head to her knees and sat there supporting him, 
trembling, weeping, knowing only that she was with 
him at last, and utterly incapable of thinking of any- 
thing further to be done. And after a little while, Harry 
opened his eyes and recognized her. 

“ Maijorie ?” he whispered, feebly, but with an ac- 
cent of delight. “Is it all over? ” he murmured. “And 
are we in Heaven ?” 

He lifted his hand to caress her cheek as she bent 
above him, and then lost consciousness again. Marjorie 
was so near the edge of the stream that she could reach 
her hand into the water and bathe his face, and this she 
was doing with patient hope, when they cheered her 
from the opposite bank. 

“And what’s to be done now ? ” queried the Doctor, 
with despairing appeal to the stalwart Johnson, whose 
success in rescuing Memory Waits had won his unques- 
tioning reliance. 

“ Why, ye’d better cross over and feel of him,” John- 
son counselled with composure. “ I ain’t no gift in 
doctorin’.” 

“ My head ’ll spin like a top,” the Doctor demurred. 

“ You kin do as much as a gal, I reckin ? Come, I'll 
lead ye. You’ve only to gimme yo’ hand, and one foot 
up and t’other down, ye know. ” 

The Doctor felt cold chills creep over him, but he was 
ashamed to refuse. “ Drive on there with that wagon,” 
he commanded. “ Get Memory home as quick as you 
can. I’ll be along in the course of time. One of you 
take my horse and gallop ahead to give Miss Lancaster 
warning what’s happened.” 

The horses upon which Memory and Marjorie had 
ridden, had rushed away at the crashing of the bridge, 
in a mad panic, and were now whinnying at their pas- 
ture-gates. 

“ What’s that for ?” asked Johnson. “ How air ye to 
git back ? ” 

“ By the lower road, please Heaven,” answered the 
Doctor “ If I have to foot it every step. It isn’t so many 
year since I marched with the boys in gray. It’ll double 
every white hair in my head, crossing that log. I shan’t 
take that risk twice. ” 

Johnson gave a hitch to' his pantaloons and grinned. 


256 PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 

“ Ye air true grit, Doc, by yo' own showin’. ’Countin’ 
of the white hairs, ye must of crossed a many a high- 
hung, resky path.” 

“ Prematurely gray, sir,” said the Doctor. “ Will you 
lead on ? ” 

Piloted by Johnson, Dr. Griffith accomplished the 
passage of the foot-log in safety, and made his breath- 
less way down the bluff. “ I’ve visited many a patient 
in out-of-the way places, in the course of my practice,” 
he grumbled ; “ but this beats any experience ever I went 
through. 

However, he had the satisfaction of finding Harry 
Kenric not so badly hurt as he had feared. Harry was 
fully conscious now, and able to give some account of 
his fall. He had jumped from the buggy not on the 
ground, but on the bridge, and clung to the upright post 
that supported the railing ; but this had given way, just 
after the horses went down, precipitating him over the 
bluff that sloped backward from the stream, so that he 
had partly rolled partly fallen to the bottom. His left 
arm was broken, and his left ankle badly sprained, and 
he was severely bruised, but he did not seem to have 
sustained any other injury. Still he was helpless, and 
what to do with him, was a puzzling question. 

“ It will take five or six men to heft him up the bank,” 
said Johnson, with his head on one side, considering 
the problem. 

“ We’ll never git him up this bank at all, until We 
build a stair,” declared the Doctor, gloomily. 

“ Not here ; no, sir,” Johnson admitted. “ But thar’s 
pretty good foot-hold along the water’s aidge all the 
way on this side, an’ about a half mile further down 
thar’s a tollable easy slope. It’s a rough passage, but 
put him on a litter, and five or six men could worry 
along. It’ll be broad day, how’ver, befo’ the job’s 
done. ” 

“ How to get the men ? ” queried the Doctor. 

“ Ah, I’ll trump up the neighbors,” responded John- 
son, cheerily. 

‘‘I ought to be going back,” said the Doctor, un- 
easily. “ I’m afraid Memory Waits will die. I wish 
pow I hadn’t sent my horse off.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


257 


“ If you can do Memory any good, Doctor, pray lose 
no time in going to him/’ pleaded Harry. 

“ Aye,” said Johnson, eagerly. “ I’ll look after this 
un, you may depend. I kin git you a muel to my 
place, ef you kin walk that far ? “ ’Bout a quarter mile. ” 

“ Marjorie,” said the Doctor, “ are you afraid to stay 
here with Harry ? ” 

“ No ; I am not afraid,” answered Marjorie, simply. 

“ She’s got the grit o’ Miss Lancaster herself,” John- 
son declared, in admiration. “Don’t ye be oneasy, 
little gal,” he added ; “ we’ll have ye awajr from here, 
safe an’ sound, by streak o’ dawn. I don’t reckon 
nothin’ is goin’ to trouble ye, but if ye like, here’s my 
pistol.” 

Marjorie protested that she was not afraid, but she took 
the pistol because Dr. Griffith urged it, and then the 
Doctor and Johnson went away, and she was alone 
with Harry under the stars. 

“ Marjorie, dear, it is so very strange,” said Harry. 
“Tell me how you happened to be here ; tell me all.” 

But to tell him all was impossible ; she told him only 
what he needed to know. Harry was safe, and she 
had forgiven Memory, pitying him with an infinite pity, 
when she remembered his suffering ; and yet she winced 
when Harry said : 

11 Poor Memory ! Dear Memory ! He would have 
saved me if he could.” 

She hoped that this was true ; but knowing what she 
did, could she be sure ? She shivered in doubt. 

“ Are you cold, Marjorie ? ” asked Harry. 

“ No, no,” she faltered. 

“ Dear Memory ! The danger is all over now, why 
do you tremble so, my dearest ? He saved you, my 
darling ! Saved you for me, and a lifetime would not 
suffice for my gratitude. And to think that it was you, 
you , my slim little love, who saved me ! My brave 
one ! — Marjorie, since you are not hurt, I would 
rather you had saved me than that Memory had 
saved me — if only he had escaped. How my father 
will bless you ! How proud he will be to call you his 
daughter ! ” 

Marjorie sighed. 

“ Marjorie, I hope Memory will not die,” 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


258 

“ Oh, I hope so ! I hope so ! ” panted Marjorie, 
shuddering. “It would be dreadful, dreadful , if he 
were to die,” 

“ Marjorie, let us pray for him ; let us ask God to 
spare his life. I am so bruised I can not kneel, but you 
kneel, dear angel, kneel and pray ; God will hear 
you.” 

Marjorie, with sweet obedience, knelt upon the sand ; 
but the sound of the waters filled her ears, those cruel 
waters, that but for a chance word from Dr. Griffith, 
might now be babbling above Harry Kenric’s head ; 
and she burst into passionate weeping. 

“ Marjorie dearest ! Majorie beloved ! ” cried Harry, 
in deep distress. “He will not die ! God will not 
send us that sorrow. ” 

“ God be merciful unto us — and bless us,” sobbed 
Marjorie, brokenly. “And forgive us — forgive us our 
trespasses — as we forgive ” 

She could say no more, but when she rose from her 
knees, neither she nor Harry was aware that she had 
not prayed — in words — for Memory’s life to be spared. 

They sat silent after this, holding each other’s hands, 
and waiting in deep content for the help that was pres- 
ently coming. They did not need to utter the one ab- 
sorbing thought that possessed them both, for each un- 
sorbing thought that possessed them both, that nothing 
now could sever them. 

In order to spare her guests a prolonged anxiety, 
Miss Penny did not tell Miss Fish or Miss Wallis of the 
danger that threatened Harry Kenric, until she saw 
the messenger riding down the hill on Dr. Griffith’s 
horse. 

Miss Wallis received the information calmly, though 
the bright color forsook her cheeks. “We must hope for 
the best,” she said, gently, “until we know the worst.” 
But she thought of the boy’s father, and her voice died 
away to a whisper. 

Miss Fish behaved with unreasonable violence. She 
upbraided Miss Penny, she accused Miss Wallis of 
want of feeling, she abused Dr. Griffith ; she called 
every one to witness that she had never approved of 
Harry’s taking up his abode on the farm. When the 
messenger rode into the yard and told the story of the 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


259 

disaster, Miss Fish became still more enraged. “ And 
that girl is there ! ” she cried, “Monstrous ! I well 
believe it was all arranged on purpose ! ” 

Miss Penny’s patience gave away. “ Miss Fish,” 
she said, severely, “ I will not allow you to reflect 
upon Marjorie in that way. In all probablity it is due 
to her that Harry Kenric escaped with his life.” And 
then Miss Penny went off to see what could be done for 
Memory. 

“ Do you hear that, Anastasia ? Do you hear ? ” cried 
Miss Fish. “If she should have saved his life, what a 
misfortune ! ” 

Miss Wallis burst into hysterical laughter. 

“You unfeeling girl ! ” said Miss Fish. “ His father 
must be telegraphed for; Yes! instantly. I will have 
my way this time.” 

“Certainly,” Miss Wallis assented, checking her 
laughter. “ His father must be sent for — must come.” 
She rose as she said this, stood a moment, irresolute, 
stretched out her hands gropingly, and for the first time 
in her life, fainted. 

“The most inconsiderate thing she could have done,” 
said Miss Fish, helplessly. “But Anastasia always 
was so absurd.” 

About midnight Dr. Griffith returned, having ridden a 
long way round on Johnson’s “muel”. He reported 
favorably concerning Harry Kenric, but approved of 
sending for his father. “ The boy is pretty badly shaken 
up,” he said ; “ and it may be some weeks before he 
will be able to get about. More satisfactory to have his 
father at hand. ” 

“And Memory?” inauired Miss Penny, anxiously. 

‘ * What of Memory ? ” 

The Doctor shook his head sadly. “Only a question 
of time. Internal injuries, poor fellow.” 

It was nine o’clock, next morning, before Harry 
Kenric was brought back to Miss Penny’s house. John- 
son drove him in a little cart, lying on a shuck mattress, 
the best Mrs. Johnson had to offer, but the journey over 
a rough road in that jolting vehicle was not an easy 
one for a man in his condition ; and Miss Fish, when 
she beheld him, pale and bruised, his arm in a sling, 


260 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

broke out into fresh abuse of Miss Penny’s entire house- 
hold. 

By this time, however, Miss Penny’s household had 
learned to disregard her vituperation. “Where is Mar- 
jorie?” Miss Penny asked, calmly putting Miss Fish 
aside. 

“She is to my house, Miss Lankster,” replied John- 
son. “With my wife. Thar warn’t no room in the 
cyart, an’ thar warn’t nothin’ for her to ride, ’ceptin’ of 
a steer, as Dr. Griffith he had the muel, an’ we warn’t 
agreein’ to see her walk, bein’ she’s all of a trimble, 
any ways ; so my wife she kep’ her.” 

> “ I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Johnson,” said Miss 
Penny, with feeling. “You’ve been a friend in need. 
But I must have my child at home. I'll go myself and 
bring her, while the Doctor is here to look after our 
wounded.” 

“Ye talk like a gin’ral of the army, Miss Lankster,” 
said Johnson, with enthusiasm ; “an’ ye deserve to be.” 

“Yes, bring Marjorie home, Miss Lancaster,” said 
Harry ; “bring her with trumpets blowing, and banners 
flying. She saved my life.” 

“It needed but this,” muttered Miss Fish. “When 
it is manifest that it was Memory Waits who saved him. 
Such is the gratitude of man ! ” 

Miss Penny ordered her phaeton and drove to Mrs. 
Johnson’s — a long drive it was — where she found Mar- 
jorie pale and tearful. 

“Do not be angry with me, Cousin,” she pleaded. 
“ He would have been lost, if I had not gone.” 

“Angry with you, my dear child ! ” said Miss Penny, 
with almost a sob. “Oh, Marjorie, I’m proud of you. 
You’ve done a brave deed ; God grant you may not be 
forgotten therefor.” And she held the girl in her arms 
a long time, aching with the thought that the day was 
at hand when she must give her up. 

So Miss Penny brought Marjorie home, and then set 
herself to do her best for the sufferers under her roof. 

Memory Waits lingered yet a few days to expiate his 
sin in a mental anguish far greater than his physical 
suffering. Harry Kenric, in the plenitude of his sym- 
pathy, would fain have been carried to the poor fellow’s 
bedside, to thank him, to bless, to utter assurances of 


PENNY LANCASTER FARMER . 


261 


undying gratitude and friendship ; to promise him every 
comfort, every gratification in the power of man to give ; 
but to Harry's grief and humiliation, Memory's constant, 
almost frantic prayer was, to be delivered from * ‘ that 
man of the city.'’ Those who attended upon him, 
thought him delirious. Marjorie alone knew the secret 
of his anguish, and Marjorie alone shrank from him with 
an unspeakable dread. Three days passed before she 
saw him, and then she went to him with trembling and 
a nameless apprehension, for Memory had sent her 
word that he had to tell her of a great trouble that 
weighed upon him and would not let him rest. 

“ 1 think the poor fellow is out of his head, Marjorie,*' 
the Doctor said; “you need not mind what he tells 
you. " 

And she was left alone with Memory Waits. 

She sat down beside the bed where he lay, propped 
up on pillows, the ghost of his former self. His large, 
dark eyes, sunken in his blanched face, shone with a 
preternatural brightness. He did not smile at her — 
there was that in his look which seemed to say that 
Memory Waits would smile never again — but he looked 
at her with piteous beseeching, and then put up his left 
hand to shade his eyes. 

“ Marjorie,'' he sighed, “ my right hand has lost its 
cunning forever. ‘ By terrible things in righteouness 
shalt thou answer us, O God.' His judgments they air 
just, and I submit. Ye wouldn’ nuver clasp hands with 
me again, and so it’s no matter. I got a word to say, 
Marjorie, I don't want nobody to know. I got my con- 
fession to make, what there ain’t no peace for me ontel 
I get yo’ forgiveness." 

. “ I do, I do indeed forgive you, Memory," said Mar- 
jorie. “He is safe, you know." 

Memory drew his breath sobbingly. “Ye don’t on- 
derstand ! ” he cried. “Ye called me no better than a 
murderer, Marjorie, but ye didn’ know how sharp that 
word come home to me. It was the temptation of the 
Devil, and God has took away the use of the member 
that sinned, and so I know God forgives me — it is a sign. 
A dead thing forever is my right hand that sought to do 
the Devil’s work, and behold, I go maimed the rest of 
my days. God’s will be done. " 


262 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER, 

He paused, panting for breath. 

“Try to sleep, now, Memory,” said Maijorie, softly ; 
“ and I will sing to you some of the hymns you love.” 

“No, no,” he said, excitedly. “I got to tell ye. I 
knew Tout the bridge. I knew ’t wam’t safe. But 
I prayed for him, Marjorie, I wrastled in prayer, for 
I knew life and death be the mysteries of the Lord. I 
said ‘ Lord, all creatures air in Thy hand ; if thou dost 
take care that not a sparrer shall fall to the ground, be- 
hold, now, Thou, Lord, hast this puny creature of Thine 
in Thine own keeping to direct his steps aright, if this 
be Thy will. If he be led by the way of the bridge and 
perishes — why, he perishes. Gods will be done. But 
if it be thy purpose to save him, he shall not return by 
the way of danger/ That’s what I prayed, Marjorie. 
It war the reasonable prayer of faith. ” 

Memory poured out his words, feeble though he was, 
with such eagerness that it was impossible to check 
him ; only when he paused for breath, could Marjorie 
attempt to soothe him. 

“ Let us forget the bridge, Memory,” she said, gently. 
“It is all over now, and God is good ; He has saved, 
and He will forgive. ” 

“ I know; I know,” panted Memory. “ God forgives 
because He is good and His mercy endureth forever. It 
is your forgiveness I want, Marjorie, and ye air mortal 
— and the mercy of mortals is oncertain — as the wind 
that bloweth where it listeth. Ye don’t know as ye for- 
give, onlest ye got a clear onderstandin’. I ain’t done 
tellin’ ye. For when I had prayed, there seemed to 
come a light out o’ darkness, and I said God will take 
care of his safety ; but if destruction be God’s will, I, 
even I, will make destruction the surer.” 

Again he paused to gather strength, and Marjorie, 
half-doubting that she heard aright, stared at him, with 
a creeping horror. 

“While I went forth with the scoffer who would be 
seeking pleasure in deriding God’s saints,” he presently 
continued, “I took with me the means to accomplish 
God’s purposes — so I thought, so I thought. I warn’t no 
murderer, Marjorie ; I could ha’ killed him on the roadside 
and hid him in the wood, but I knew his life was in God’s 
hands. But I was free to resk my own life to work out 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


263 

Gods will. I came a long- way round by Kimberly 
Bridge, and I made sure it should not stand under the 
feet of any scoffer ; and I knew, too, that quick destruc- 
tion would be a mercy. I loosened the timbers ; at the 
resk of my own life I loosened them, and the bridge 
rocked under me when I came back.” 

Marjorie sat like one turned to stone ; the blood 
seemed to freeze in her veins ; for she knew that Memory 
was not out of his head, and she believed every word 
he said. 

“For God’s sake don’t look at me like that, Mar- 
jorie,” he implored, putting his trembling left hand over 
his eyes. “I tell you I believed I was doing God’s 
work. For if the bridge had fallen then, I’d a knowed 
God did not purpose to destroy. But I waited and I 
waited, and the bridge was still. And so I came away 
and said ‘God’s will be done.’ And behold it was the 
Devil’s job that was put upon me ; it was the Devil’s 
job, and I never knew it, ontel you come to me out 
yonder in the field, and said you’d never trust me no 
mo.’ Leastwise, that was what you meant. And I 
saw you was one of God’s angels sent to warn me, 
though you ain’t experienced religion. It was God 
guided you — ” 

“ It was God guided me,” repeated Marjorie, in a 
hushed voice. “ Merciful Heaven ! ” 

“And don’t you go to believe I roae after you to save 
Harry Kenric’s life, Marjorie,” pursued Memory, bitterly, 
“I ain’t one to lie, not for glory. I warn’t minded about 
Harry Kenric — I had left him to the Lord, but if you 
had gone down, then I knowed I was damned forever, 
here and hereafter. You saved his life, but I saved 
yourn, and that’s how I can ask ye to forgive. Mar- 
jorie ! Marjorie ! What I suffer in the body is nothin’ 
to the torment of soul — Forgive ! ” 

But Marjorie was silent. “Suppose,” thought she, 
“ supposed had ended as Memory had wished ! ” And 
she shuddered. 

“Without your forgiveness I must die,” moaned 
Memory, piteously. “And I am afraid to die with 
that look of your face always to remember, Marjorie ! 
Marjorie ! ” 

But still Marjorie was unmoved. She thought she 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


264 


had forgiven him, but that was before she knew all. 

“Ah," he said, with a bitter groan, as he stretched 
forth his left hand, opening and shutting his fingers in 
the beam of light that struggled through the imperfectly 
closed shutters, “all things air yourn still ; life, hope, 
love , and this world o’ growing things — Ah, Marjorie, 
you saved him, but it was God’s will, and all along I 
prayed God’s will be done." 

“Oh, Memory 1 ” cried Marjorie, as she threw herself 
upon her knees beside him. “ Forgive me ! You were 
tempted, and you suffer. I forgive, and I will try to 
forget ” 

Memory closed his eyes, and was silent, while there 
flickered but an instant upon his pinched features what 
might pass for the ghost of a smile, ‘ * I shan’t — forget, ’’ 
he said, presently, with a long quivering sigh. “You 
see I love you, Marjorie. And I ain’t — goin’ to die. 
It’s the will o’ the Lord. I’m to live henceforth — a 
marked man. To carry — the word o’ the Lord’s judg- 
ment. This right hand o’ mine can never wrong man 
nor beast, nor herb no mo’ ; its power for evil is clean 
gone forever; but it’ll be a power for the work o’ the 
sperrit in the conversion of sinners. Won’t you clasp it 
again, Marjorie?" 


Alas, for the imperfection of human forgiveness ! 
Marjorie made a strong effort to control a shudder, be- 
fore she could compel herself to touch that hand which 
had doomed the life dearer than her own to sudden de- 
struction. And yet how easily by a lie might Memory 
have carried out his design. She slipped her hand, 
throbbing with youth’s warm pulses, upon the cold and 
helpless fingers, and as she touched them, the tears 
sprang to her eyes and rolled over her cheeks. 

“Don t be afeard," said Memory. “Them fingers is 
allerways cold, now. It’s God’s everlastin’ judgment 
on the member what has sinned. It’s his will I’m to 


live — a marked man — for God’s glory." 

He closed his eyes ; his head drooped upon the pil- 
low ; he sighed softly, and Marjorie crept on tip-toe 
from the room. 

“ He is asleep," she said. 

But Memory Waits was dead. 

Marjorie did not go to the funeral ; she was too ill to 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 265 

leave her room ; but Miss Fish and Miss Wallis went 
with Miss Penny and Gentleman Joe to join the im- 
mense concourse that assembled from far and near to 
follow Memory Waits to his last resting-place. Harry 
Kenric, too, though unable yet to walk, insisted upon 
being lifted into the little phaeton with Miss Penny ; 
and he won the hearts of the primitive hill-folk by weep- 
ing like a child through the long sermon, that set forth, 
with a rude, yet graphic eloquence, the dead man’s ex- 
cellences and his deed of heroism ; while Marjorie, 
alone in her room, prayed Heaven hopelessly, for pow- 
er to forget the dread revelations of Memory’s death- 
bed. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

VOICES OF THE PAST. 

Morrison Kenric was in Colorado, looking after certain 
business interests, when he received Miss Fish’s telegram 
which was couched in terms sufficiently alarming to 
make him set out at once for Briarville. He an- 
nounced his coming by a message almost as long as a 
letter, insisting that Harry must have a surgeon from 
Savannah, or even from Philadelphia, at all of which 
Harry laughed. 

“ I shall be dancing a hornpipe by the time my anx- 
ious parent arrives,” he declared. “It will take some 
time to come from Colorado here.” , 

But his father arrived even a day earlier than the 
earliest day he was expected, and it happened to be the 
morning after Memory Waits’s funeral. Miss Penny was 
sitting on the front porch, disheartened and inert, when 
her old-time friend was driven up to her gate. 

Morrison Kenric had received several telegrams at 
various points on his journey, reassuring him as to his 
son’s condition, but no letter ; he was, therefore, ignor- 
ant of all details regarding the accident, nor even did 
he know the place where his son was staying ; for 
neither Miss Fish nor Miss Wallis nor Harry, in their 
correspondence, had ever mentioned Miss Penny's home 


266 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


by any distinctive title, nor named the family, andKen- 
ric heard of Lancaster's Farm for the first time, when 
he arrived at the hotel. He was, therefore, totally un- 
prepared for meeting any ghosts of the past. The name 
Lancaster s Farm , indeed, had struck him as an odd co- 
incidence reminding him a little sadly of the days when 
“poor, poor Penny” — as he now thought of her — used 
to prattle of her ambition to “own land” and “to see 
things grow.” But Penny, he was assured, was dead ; 
and even did he believe her to be among the living, he 
could not believe it to be within the possibilities that 
she should attain to the possession of this well-ordered 
farm, which he beheld from his carriage windows, spread 
out in smiling thrift, under the summer skies. He won- 
dered a little whether the people of the farm might not 
be of Penny's kindred, and he decided that he would in- 
quire. He had never told his son about this early friend : 
he had been a little ashamed, for one thing, that he had 
asked the tavern-girl to marry him. He knew, indeed, 
that he had never been in love with her, but partly through 
pique, partly through generosity, he had been entirely 
in earnest about marrying her, so much in earnest that 
he had ever since felt immensely grateful to her for re- 
fusing him. Even his rescue, which she had achieved 
with courage so cool and unfaltering, hardly seemed to 
him deserving of deeper gratitude ; and then, besides, 
Alice, his wife, poor, restless, exacting Alice, whom he 
certainly had not married for love, — Alice had not been 
pleased that Harry should know anything about Penny 
Lancaster. So much had he deprecated his wife’s dis- 
pleasure, he had been guilty of a tacit subterfuge in 
withholding from his family and friends the knowl- 
edge that the woman who achieved his rescue during 
the war, was the girl of the Little Warrenton tavern. 
But he had not forgotten Penny. It gave him a thrill 
of genuine delight, akin to the old joy of youth, to feel 
that possibly these Lancasters had known her, or could 
tell of her. He did not recognize the plump, comely, 
middle-aged, sun-browned woman sitting on the porch. 
To him, Penny had always been the personification of 
perennial youth. 

But Miss Penny knew him ; even had she not known 
that he was coming, she would have recognized him, 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 2 67 

for an easy life, and careful attention to health and dress 
had preserved his youthful looks almost unimpaired, and 
though his hair was turning gray, and he wore glasses, 
he passed for some years younger than he really was. 
It pleased Miss Wallis to fancy him the older brother of 
his son. To Miss Penny it seemed as though it had 
been but yesterday when she bade him farewell on the 
muddy roadside in the mist of the dawn ; but she per- 
ceived with wounded pride that he did not recognize 
her. “ Am I then so changed ? ” she wondered. 

Years of open-air life had given Miss Penny steady 
nerves. She made no sign of recognition ; she said to 
herself that she had been forgotten, and that since Mor- 
rison Kenric came as a stranger, as a stranger would 
she receive him. She rose, as he came upon the porch, 
and returned his salutation with an awkward stiffness. 

“ I am Mr. Kenric,” he said, and Miss Penny had an 
irritating consciousness that he felt he was impressing 
her with his importance. 

“You are a day earlier than you were expected,” she 
replied; “but I don’t suppose it will make any dif- 
ference.” 

“ My son ? ” he asked eagerly 

“He is doing very well ; only he would go out yes- 
terday, and he over-fatigued himself. I think he is 
asleep just now. Perhaps it would be better to see the 
ladies before going to him ? ” 

“ Thanks,” said Kenric, bowing. “ I suppose I have 
the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Lancaster ? ” 

All at once Miss Penny’s self-restraint gave way, and 
she did not know whether she most wanted to laugh or 
to cry. But she did neither ; after a short struggle she 
said simply, and quite as though accounting for herself 
to some stranger : 

“I am not married ; I am Penthesilea Lancaster ; and 
this is my farm.” 

Kenric stood agape with incredulity ; this his friend 
Penny Lancaster to whom he said farewell on that lonely 
mountain roadside so long ago — whom for years he 
had believed to be dead ? He felt as if he were in a 
dream ; but as the truth forced itself upon him, he sprang 
forward to grasp her hands, and for a brief instant he 
and Penny Lancaster were young again. 


268 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


“ My old friend, Penny?” he stammered. “Can it 
be ? Why, dear Penny, they wrote me you were 
dead.” 

“You were easily satisfied of my death,” said Miss 
Penny, a little coldly, as she withdrew her hands. 

Kenric colored. Yes ; he had been easily satisfied of 
her death, but he had never doubted that she married 
Rosser. “ They wrote me that Mrs. Kosser was dead ” 
he said, in awkward explanation. 

“It wasn’t me,” Miss Penny informed him, dryly. 

“ And — and wasn’t your sweetheart true to you, then, 
Penny ? ” But seeing that she hesitated, he hastened to 
add, “Forgive the question; I’m an old friend, you 
know. ” 

“Yes ; he was true,” Miss Penny sighed. “But he 
was — killed — by some of our men — the day I left you 
there on the roadside.” And to her own exceeding 
surprise, the tears rushed to her eyes. She did not like 
ever to think of Luke Rosser’s death ; it oppressed her 
painfully to remember the tragedy to which she owed 
her escape from a marriage that was odious to her, but 
she knew that Luke had loved her to the full capacity 
of his narrow soul. 

“ Because of me ? ” Kenric asked, with a pang of keen 
regret 

“It was his own fault,” said Miss Penny, briefly. 
“And I never have been sorry for what I did.” 

“And with such a claim upon me, why have you 
never written to me, Penny, in all these years ? There 
must have been some time when I might have helped 
you ? ” Morrison Kenric asked with a strong sense of 
injury ; for he felt himself, somehow, defrauded that no 
opportunity had been given him to pay off his debt of 
gratitude. 

“ I have done well enough as you see,” Miss Penny 
made reply with a just pride. 

He smiled. “ It is like a fairy-tale, my dear Penny ! 
You have realized your ambition, and are mistress of a 
farm of your own. I hope you have found happiness 
along with success.” 

“I’ve been fairly happy,” Miss Penny answered, 
with a sigh. “There isn’t any steady happiness in this 
world, I reckon.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


269 

“And to think that my son — my son should have 
been here all these weeks, and never have told me 
whose roof sheltered him ! ” 

“ He had never heard of Penny Lancaster, ” said Miss 
Penny, with covert reproach. 

Kenric sighed. “It is by the name of Rosser he 
knows you ; it was by that name I told him how you 
had saved his father from a prisoner’s fate. I was so 
sure you had married — I wish you had told him ! I 
wish you had written to me ! ” 

Miss Penny smiled gravely. “ There are many les- 
sons to be learned on a farm, she said, after a little 
pause. “ Waiting is one of these lessons. ” 

Kenric only half understood her. “I should have 
been so glad to help you,” he said, in a vexed tone ; 
“but now you need no help of mine.” 

“ I don’t think I ever could have needed it,” said 
Miss Penny, serenely ; “as I got along without it. 
Will you come in ?” she asked, presently. “And I will 
let Miss Fish and Miss Wallis know that you are 
here. ” 

She led Morrison Kenric into her parlor, a room fur- 
nished with the utmost propriety that a serviceable ugli- 
ness could devise — black walnut chairs and sofa covered 
with black mohair, a marble-topped table with a huge 
Bible in gilded morocco, and a green glass lamp ; and 
some shells in a big glass jar on the mantel-shelf, and 
some dried grasses in a stone jar on the hearth, and 
upon a bracket between the windows, an alabaster vase 
with doves upon the brim, the exact counterpart of a 
vase Kenric remembered well, in a little New England 
parlor, years ago. He wondered how it was that its 
fellow should have found its way into Penny Lancas- 
ter’s parlor. The sight of it made him sigh with the 
burden of many recollections ; it reminded him of his 
Cousin Laura to whom the passionate devotion of his 
early youth had been given, and whose fate he had 
never been able to learn ; and then, by a natural tran- 
sition, he thought of the woman he was soon to marry, 
almost enough his junior to be his daughter, and quite 
handsome enough to make him the envy of younger 
men ; and yet, just now, he wished he were not going 
to meet her. Not that he was not fond of her ; indeed, 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


270 

he assured himself that he was quite as much in love 
as a younger man might be, but to meet her under 
Penny Lancasters roof, was too much for his serenity. 
He remembered, suddenly, that Miss Wallis knew all 
about his friend, the Georgia tavern-girl — except that he 
had once asked her to marry him — why had Miss 
Wallis never mentioned the name of Lancaster in her 
letters ? Possibly — ah, most probably , Miss Fish, for 
some ridiculous, occult reason of state, had counselled 
the propriety of ignoring Penny Lancaster. Miss Fish 
had possessed great influence over his wife Alice ; 
perhaps she had known how to acquire an equally 
weighty influence over the beautiful Anastasia. He 
frowned and sighed, for he had hoped to be rid of Miss 
Fish. And then he thought again of Penny Lancaster, 
not as the Georgia tavern-girl, but as the mistress of 
this thriving farm ; and almost he could have believed 
himself dreaming but for the acute sense of inferiority 
that beset him. He who had followed with ease and 
comfort the paths already smoothed for him, was called 
a successful man ; but this woman had had a career, 
had struggled and conquered and had achieved her am- 
bition. Not that he cared in the least to change places 
with her, but — he had cherished no ambitions from the 
day he left Little Warrenton. 

‘ ‘ It would have ruined her life to have married me, 
when I was such a fool as to make love to her,” he 
said to himself with a shrug. 

And Miss Penny, on her way up stairs, had said to 
herself, “Well ! all I’ve won by my hard work is the 
right to till my own land, maybe ; but I’m thankful I 
had the sense not to marry a man that is fitted so well 
in his clothes at this time o’ life. There's no farmer 
in him.” 

The old romance was dead. 

Miss Fish and Miss Wallis were in a room overlook- 
ing the lawn at the side of the house, but as the windows 
did not command a view of the road to town, they had 
not seen the carriage that brought Mr. Kenric, and 
they knew nothing of his arrival until Miss Penny an- 
nounced it. 

Miss Fish gave her a quick and searching glance ; but 
Miss Penny’s placid visage revealed nothing. She had 


271 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

never had a doubt that Miss Fish knew who she was, 
but she had long ago made up her mind that Miss Fish 
should never be the wiser for that knowledge. 

y -Fhe drama has begun ! ” Miss Wallis exclaimed, 
with a mock-tragedy air ; but she was very pale, and 
her lips trembled as she said to Miss Fish, “Pray go 
down ; I am not ready yet.” 

I am sure you are very well just as you are,” said 
Miss Fish, going toward the door; “except that you 
haven’t your usual color.” 

Miss Wallis glanced at herself in the mirror, and cer- 
tainly she had reason to be satisfied with her attire, a 
very simple morning-dress of some soft fabric of a pale 
gray tint, with a glowing red hibiscus fastening the 
delicate cloud of lace that half-hid and half-revealed her 
rounded throat. She had the merit of being always 
dressed, for she possessed an artistic taste that made her 
delight in adorning herself for her own pleasure, as 
some people delight in adorning a room, though there 
be no one to invite to enter. Certainly her toilette was 
not at fault, and yet she repeated, “I am not ready ; I 
will come later.” 

Miss Penny had left the room, but Miss Wallis ran 
out into the hall and caught her arm, just as she was 
descending the stair. ‘ ‘ Don’t go ! ” she whispered, 
hurriedly. “I want you!” Miss Fish passed on, and 
Miss Wallis drew Miss Penny back into the room and 
locked the door. 

“ Miss Lancaster,” she panted, “ can you understand 
what it is to be tempted to a meanness, not for the sake 
of some one you love, but for the sake of the dear love 
of some one? ” 

“No,” said Miss Penny, coldly. She was of too 
practical as turn for such subtleties. 

Miss Wallis smiled faintly. She was very pale, yet 
in each cheek glowed a spot of feverish color. “Oh, 
I wish, how I wish I never had come here,” she sighed. 

The color flamed in Miss Penny’s face. “/ have 
nothing to do with your coming,” she said. “And I 
shall not care when you are gone.” 

Miss Wallis shook her head. “It is fate. Don’t you 
believe in fate. Miss Lancaster ? ” 


272 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


“ I believe in plain speech, said Miss Penny, bluntly, 
“and I don't understand you." 

Miss Wallis laughed nervously. “ That is what Miss 
Fish is always saying. And — I don’t know that I un- 
derstand myself. I seem to be two people. I wish I 
hadn’t come, and yet I cannot be sorry I came, for I 
feel that it is good to know you. I — I have no mother. 
She died when I was so young, before I had left school." 

Miss Wallis paused, her eyes full of a timid appeal : 
but Miss Penny remained silent. She was not open 
to flattery ; her face took on a severe expression. 

“ Do not look at me like that ! ” Anastasia entreated, 
turning her face away. ‘ ‘ I — I am in great distress. " 
Her voice shook slightly, and she laid her hand upon 
the edge of the table, to steady herself. 

“What can I do for you? " Miss Penny asked, in a 
perfunctory tone. 

Miss Wallis threw herself upon her knees, and 
clasped Miss Penny’s knees in a close embrace. 
“Am I not fair?" she cried. “Am I not beautiful, 
even ? " 

“Yes; you are," Miss Penny made blunt acknowl- 
edgment, struggling to free herself. “ But let me go." 

“ Men have called me fair ever since I could remem- 
ber;" Anastasia went on, heedless of Miss Penny’s 
struggles ; “but no praise of men ever touched my 
heart until now. There is one I love as my life — in 
whose eyes I rejoice to be fair, and yet — to-day — to-day 
— I am afraid or ashamed, I know not which, to show 
myself in his presence." 

“ Do you mean — Morrison Kenric ? ’’ said Miss Penny, 
still struggling to free herself. 

“Yes, it is he!" said Anastasia, hiding her face 
against Miss Penny’s knees. “I am his promised wife ! 
Oh, think what it is to be that ! In his eyes I know 
that I am fair to look upon ; but Ah, the misery of know- 
ing myself — a fraud. ” 

“Yes! You are a fraud!" cried Miss Penny, un- 
clasping Anastasia’s hands, and pushing her violently 
away. “ I have known that this long time." 

Miss Wallis steadied herself against the lounge, but 
did not rise. “What have you known?” she asked 
with dilating eyes. 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


273 

Miss Penny had walked away to the other end of 
the room, but she came quickly back. She was greatly 
agitated. 

“ Why did you talk to me as you did that day under 
the cherry-trees ? ” she demanded with indignant vehe- 
mence. “Why have you striven to surprise my con- 
fidence, and to compel my sympathy, though you — you 
dared not be frank with me ? Did you think me a blind 
fool?” 

“Ah, no! Ah, no, no !” murmured Anastasia. She 
was still on her knees, her right arm resting on the 
lounge, her left hand hanging by her side. She made 
no resistance when Miss Penny stooped and caught up 
this hand, but the color surged over her face. 

Almost rudely, Miss Penny pushed back the broad 
gold band that fitted closely a few inches above the 
beautiful wrist and laying her finger upon a deep, irreg- 
ular scar, said, in a tone of grave severity : 

“ I remember when that scar was made.” 

Miss Wallis did not shrink, nor draw away her arm, and 
Miss Penny continued in the same tone : 

“ You were little better than a baby when Morrison 
Kenric brought you down in his arms from the pile of 
lumber at Perdico Mill, and tied up that cut with his 
handkerchief. Though you go by your step-father's 
name, 1 have known who you are from the day I saw 
you in the carriage that was near running over me. 1 
wonder anybody should miss the likeness ! You are 
Nannie Lyndham, my sister’s child, Little Nannie” — Miss 
Penny’s voice broke into a sob, but she quickly recovered 
herself. “And you are ashamed of me,” she went on 
bitterly, “because — because I am not such a one as 
Miss Fish — 1 thank my God ! ” 

“ No ; that indeed you are not ! ” said Anastasia, with 
hysterical laughter. 

“And I am ashamed oiyou, "cried Miss Penny, throw- 
ing the girl’s hand violently from her. 

“Oh, indeed, indeed, you are mistaken !” cried Anas- 
tasia, springing up, and throwing her arms around Miss 
Penny. “Believe me, I am proud of you, indeed I am ! 
But, oh, if you only knew ! I’ve heard him talk of — of 
Little Warrenton — and the tavern. I could not endure 
to have him know my grandfather kept that tavern.” 


274 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


She covered her face with her hands. 

For a little while Miss Penny was silent. “Do you 
mean,” said she at last, “ that he would not marry you ? ” 

“ It might — it might make a difference,” faltered Miss 
Wallis. 

“You miserable coward,” cried Miss Penny, with 
angry contempt. “ Is it my silence you wish to bespeak ? 
Rest assured he shall never know the truth from me. 

I renounce you ! ” 

Miss Wallis threw herself upon the lounge and buried 
her face in her arms ; and Miss Penny walked angrily 
away. But at the door she paused and looked back, 
while the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. 

“ I cannot forget/ she said sadly, ‘ ‘ that once you were • 
the dearest thing in life to me ; and I warn you, Nannie, 

I warn you, ”she repeated, her voice trembling with earn- 
estness,” that you are living a lie , and that sooner or 
later a lie bears bitter fruit ; and the later, the bitterer.” 

Miss Wallis, when Miss Penny left her remained as 
she had thrown herself upon the lounge, her face hidden 
in her arms, her thoughts in a tumult. ‘ ‘ Ah, it is as I 
suspected all along,” she whispered to herself, “she 
knows me for what I really am — and a word from her — 
might shatter all my future ! ” 

And with this thought Miss Wallis sprang up. “Yes ! 

I am a coward ! ” she cried aloud. ‘ ‘ She does well to 
despise me. I despise myself. But what a reprieve to 
know that she will not tell ! ” 

She laughed and ran to the glass. “The ordeal is 
past, and it has left its mark upon me. I must bathe 
my face and go down. Some day, when the proper 
time comes, I shall be glad to tell him all — all for this 
burden of a secret ages one so.” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


275 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

HOPES AND FEARS. 

When Miss Penny went out disconsolate from her 
niece’s presence, she shut herself up in her own room, 
where she sat a long time lost in painful thought. 
Never had she so sorely felt the need of sympathy : angry 
and hurt, and disappointed, it seemed to her as if her 
little world that she had thought so secure, must soon slip 
from her controlling grasp, and she knew not upon 
whom she could count in the dark and lonely days that 
were coming. For Miss Penny understood clearly that she 
must give up Marjorie, the light of her life. In that long 
drive, when she had brought the girl home from John- 
son’s, Marjorie had dutifully told her the happy secret 
of Harry’s love, told it in the serene faith that nothing 
now could part the two hearts a great peril had united 
— nothing but inexorable death, and Miss Penny had 
found never a word to say against love’s decree. Was 
it not in accordance with the laws of nature that 
changes must come? Only, Miss Penny had not looked 
for changes to come so suddenly, and to leave her so 
forlorn. Undoubtedly she desired Marjorie’s happiness 
with a great unselfishness, for Harry Kenric and his 
father, and his father's prospective bride — Miss Penny’s 
own niece ! — were not of Miss Penny’s restricted world, 
and Marjorie would belong to them henceforth, and 
not to her ; she would become like them and grow alien 
to the old home. 

Obeying an impulse for which she could not have ac- 
counted, Miss Penny rose and studied her face in the 
little cracked mirror over her bureau. “I must have 
had some good looks once,” shemurmured; “but what 
does it matter now ? Penthesilea, you are growing old, 
and a lonely old age is before you. ” 

She sighed and turned away, but still her thoughts 
pursued her, “We are told that whatsoever we sow 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


276 

that we shall reap,” she mused. “ Now I have been 
chiefly concerned to sow oats, and corn, and wheat, 
and the things of my farm, and these things I reap. But 
I have sowed also, in my time, a devoted affection, and 
what do I reap ? My sister’s child, for whose sake, in 
her dear babyhood I could have died, is ashamed to be 
known as my niece ; and the friend for whose safety I 
would have perjured my soul in a bitter mockery of 
marriage — how easily was he persuaded of my death ! 
And Marjorie — she will leave me, leave me for a 
stranger ! ” 

Miss Penny was standing by her window, looking 
out upon a fair and cheering prospect, orchards bend- 
ing with fruit, fields ripening for the harvest, rich pas- 
tures encircled by wooded slopes, and far away, hills 
beyond hills, rising in green billows against the vast- 
ness of the sky — a charming prospect that she had loved 
to gaze upon. 

“ I care not Fortune, what you me deny, 

You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace.” 

she quoted, softly, with a sort of patient content in the 
joy that still remained to her. 

But Miss Penny was of too practical a temper to in- 
dulge this musing fit for any length of time, and happily 
for her, she had now less time than usual to spare. She 
reflected, wisely, that she could shape her life only so 
far as energetic duty might shape a life, but that the rest 
must be left to God’s ordering. To such a spirit there 
may come surprise, disappointment, surrender, perhaps, 
but never the bitterness of self-reproach. And re- 
membering that her uncle also, no less than herself, 
must suffer in the change that was coming, she felt 
herself drawn to him now by a common trouble, and 
hoping to find some ease for the burden of her heart, 
she went to seek him. 

Mr. Lancaster was under the scuppernong arbor carv- 
ing a cherry-stone as a souvenir for Miss Wallis ; he 
had a great liking for Miss Wallis. 

Miss Penny sat down sadly beside him. There was 
plenty to do, but she had no heart for work ; she wished 
that she too could carve cherry-stones. With abrupt 
brevity, she informed her uncle of Kenric’s arrival. 

The cherry-stone and the knife dropped from Mr, 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


277 

Lancaster’s trembling hands. ‘ ‘ Penthesilea ! Penthesi- 
lea ! ” he exclaimed. ‘ ‘ The rift in the tiddle ! The end 
is coming ! He will claim Marjorie ! Don’t you re- 
member, Penthesilea, what I told you ? They are her 
mother’s kin ; they will take her away. And I don’t 
want to give her up ; no ! no ! ” 

“She has come to that age,” said Miss Penny with a 
sad smile, “when you will have to give her up. The 
law of love, and the law of death, mortals cannot 
escape. ” 

To her surprise, her uncle accepted this reminder with 
satisfaction. “You mean Harry Kenric?” he asked, 
rubbing his hands. “ Ah, that will make it all right ! 
And what a load it will take off my mind. It’ll square 
all things beautifully, beautifully.’’ 

“What in the world do you mean, Uncle Joe ? ” 

“ Never mind ! never mind ! ” he returned, impatient- 
ly. “I needn’t tell all I know.” And he picked up his 
knife and resumed his work upon the cherry-stone. 

“Do you mean that you will not tell about Mar- 
jorie’s kinship ? ” Miss Penny asked. 

“ Let me alone, Penthesilea ; let me alone, ’’said Mr. 
Lancaster peevishly. “ I wish I hadn’t ever told you 
a word. There ain’t any need as I can see.” 

“Morrison Kenric is not of our world,” said Miss 
Penny, slowly. “Suppose he should not like such a 
marriage for his son ? ” 

Mr. Lancaster dropped the knife and cherry-stone a 
second time, and his countenance fell. “You reckon 
that , Penthesilea ?” he asked, dejectedly. “Ah, good 
Lord ! ” He leaned forward with his elbows on his 
knees, and his forehead resting on his hands, and sighed 
deeply. 

“ I’m sure I don’t understand you ! ” said Miss Penny, 
in perplexity. 

“Let me alone, Penthesilea! ” he exclaimed, pee- 
vishly. You are always bossing me. I tell you, it’s 
nobody’s business but mine. And I ain’t well. I’m 
going to lie down. If Morrison Kenric asks to see me 
— why, I won’t ! Tell him to wait. ” 

Miss Penny laughed. “I hardly think he’ll ask for 
you, to-day/’ she said. 

Mr. Lancaster no longer gave heed to her. He had 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


27 8 

succumbed to that cumulative depression which began 
with the crack in his violin, a depression that now 
urged him to hide himself in his own room, away from 
Morrrison Kenric, the man of all others Mr. Joe Lan- 
caster dreaded to see. 

It was a long nap Harry Kenric took that morning. 
Before he waked, Miss Fish had ample time to give her 
version of the wreck of Kimberly Bridge — a version in 
which no mention was made of Marjorie. Miss Wallis, 
who at last had come down-stairs, contented herself 
with sitting by in lovely silence, a charming contrast 
to Miss Fish’s garrulity, which lasted until the message 
came that Harry Kenric was awake and wished to see 
his father. 

Kenric saw his son alone. The young man was in 
an arm-chair, his lame ankle resting upon a cushioned 
bench, his arm in a sling. The tears sprang to his 
father’s eyes at sight of him. “My dear, dear boy ! ” 
he faltered, as he bent over, and laid his cheek against 
his boy’s yello.w hair. He had always been a very 
demonstrative father, and in this moment of intense 
feeling, he stooped to press a kiss upon the smooth, 
young forehead. 

“Oh, I’m all right, sir,” said Harry brushing away a 
tear that might have been his own or his father’s, he 
hardly knew which. “You know I always did wish to 
have an adventure. ” 

His father smiled with a sad gravity. “A sorry ad- 
venture, my dear boy ! To say nothing of your own 
broken bones, it has cost a human life.” 

“Ah, yes, sir,” sighed Harry. “Poor Memory 
Waits ! A brave fellow he was ; but no whit less brave 
than Marjorie.” 

* Marjorie ? ” repeated his father, with quick appre- 
hension. “ Who is ‘ Marjorie’? And what had she to 
do with the affair of the bridge ? ” 

“You didn’t get my letter, then ?” asked Harry, with 
deepening color. “I wrote you some days before the 
accident, and told you all about Marjorie.” 

“ I've had no such letter.” 

“ Never mind,” said Harry, serenely; “ you will be 
able to see for yourself. It was Marjorie saved mv 
life.” * 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


27 9 


“ Marjorie ?” repeated his father again. “ Miss Fish 
has been giving me a full account of the disaster. She 
said nothing- at all about ‘ Marjorie/ She told me it was 
Memory Waits to whom you owe your life.” 

“Miss Fish’s version,” said Harry, in a distinctly hold- 
cheap accent. “ She wasn’t there — how should she 
know? Memory Waits meant to save me, no doubt, 
but Marjorie was before him ; she was well on to the 
bridge, and had given me warning, so that I had time 
to jump, before Memory Waits rushed after her and 
threw her on to the road. Miss Fish, indeed ! ” 

“ And who is this Marjorie ? ” 

“She is Miss Lancaster’s cousin,” said Harry, eagerly ; 
“ but not a bit like Miss Lancaster, except in being in- 
dustrious, and all that — ” 

“ Miss Lancaster’s cousin,” interrupted his father pull- 
ing at his moustaches, and frowning. “Pray, Harry, 
what does all this mean ? ” 

“It means, sir,” answered Harry, his color deepening, 
and his voice trembling, “ that this young girl is very 
dear to your son.” 

Kenric was silent with dismay. 

“ She is everything you could desire in a daughter,” 
Harry declared. 

“ This is very sudden,” said his father, at last in a 
constrained voice. 

“ Not sudden at all, sir. If you had received my let- 
ter, you would have seen that it has been going on ever 
since I came.” 

“ I trust in Heaven you’ve not committed yourself, 
Harry ; given the girl no promise ? ” 

Harry laughed. “ No promise is needed. She knows 
I love her, and that my love is faithful. I will hear all 
you have to say, sir ; but until you see her, pray do 
not say anything.” 

His father regarded him with an indulgent smile. 
“You are so young, Harry,” he said,” I understand the 
situation perfectly ; isolated propinquity. At your age, 
even a little Older, indeed, I fancied myself in love, and 
with a rustic beauty. ” 

Harry’s face flushed. “ Wait until you see Maijorie,” 
he repeated. 

“ I was very much in earnest,” his father continued, 


280 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


deftly avoiding any direct rejoinder. “ 1 believed my- 
self, at the time, really in love with her. I went so far 
as to ask her to marry me ; but she had the good sense 
to refuse me, at which I have rejoiced ever since. It 
would have ruined my life, and ruined hers, had she 
married me.” 

“You never truly loved her, sir,” said Harry, with 
respectful firmness. 

His father felt the full force of this argument and 
colored. “ Let us put an end to this profitless dis- 
cussion,” he said, in a tone of authority that would 
have gratified Miss Fish. “You will allow me to ob- 
serve again that you are very young. I must caution 
you against youthful precipitancy. For the girl’s sake, 
as well as for your own you will do well to wait.” 

“ For what? For how long?” Harry demanded, im- 
petuously. 

“ For — developments,” his father answered, in default 
of any more definite term, and little dreaming what 
developments were at hand. 

Harry laughed with gay confidence. “ I need only 
wait until you see Marjorie,” he declared. “ She is not 
a girl of fashion, I grant you, but ah ! she is genuine.” 

“ I say nothing against the girl,” his father returned, 
frowning — 

“ And what is there to object to in the Lancasters ? ” 
Harry interrupted warmly, as his father hesitated. 
“They are sterling people. Every one acknowledges 
Miss Lancaster’s worth ; she is a woman in a thousand. 
Her mother was a Donald, and they are of the best 
people in Georgia. ” 

His father could not restrain a laugh, remembering 
how the old boast of the Donald blood used to amuse 
him. “ Miss Wallis herself told me so ! ” said Harry 
waxing warmer. “ And as for Marjorie’s father, though 
he is broken down, like many another man of his years, 
in this part of the country, he has had the education of 
a gentleman. You should hear him quote Latin, sir. 
Mr. Joe Lancaster is one of those men that ” 

“Gentleman Joe of the piney- woods Cross-roads!” 
exclaimed Morrison Kenric, in violent surprise. 

“Ah, you know him, then?” ctfed Harry, a slow 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 2 8 1 

intuition dawning in his mind. “Perhaps you knew 
Miss Lancaster herself?’' 

“No; I have never seen him,” his father answered, 
evading the latter question; “but I heard enough of 
him when I was in Little Warrenton, years ago. Gen- 
tleman Joe, they called him. He kept a Cross-roads 
store in the piney-woods, where he eked out a lazy, shift- 
less existence, carving knick-knacks, and scraping a 
fiddle. But I believe he was considered an honest sort 
of fellow. ” 

Harry colored darkly. •“ He is Marjorie’s father,” he 
said, almost defiantly. “ A harmless, kindly old gentle- 
man. And as for Miss Lancaster — what a heart is 
hers ! Nothing could exceed her goodness to me.” 

His father looked at him a moment, in silence, with 
a strange smile in his eyes, half-sad, half-tender. At 
last, he burst forth, impetuously : 

“Harry, don’t you know — don’t you guess who this 
Miss Lancaster is ? ” 

Harry stared, speechless. 

“She is the woman who rescued me, during the 
war. ” 

“Miss Lancaster ! ’ exclaimed Harry, agape with as- 
tonishment. “ Why — you said her name was Rosser .” 

“I know. She was to have married Rosser. I did 
not think it worth while to obscure the narrative by so 
many different names,” his father explained in some 
embarrassment. 

A slow smile broke over the young man’s face, a 
smile partly of amusement, partly of respectful sympa- 
thy. “ My dear father — perhaps she was also the woman 
— you once loved ? ” he said, gently. 

“ Ah, she has given you some hint, then?” his father 
exclaimed, with a frown of annoyance. “ Women 
never forget such things, and perhaps it is not reason- 
able to expect that she would not tell ” 

“Oh, indeed, you are mistaken!” cried Harry. 
“She has never said a word, not a word. It is wonder- 
ful how she has kept silence. I told her about that res- 
cue, one evening, and she sat and listened to it all 
without a syllable that could give a hint she had had 
anything to do with it. Marjorie may be proud of her 
lrinship ! ” 


282 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


Kenric winced ; but Harry did not see it. On his 
ardent young heart, this unexpected revelation had 
made a deep impression. He saw, clearly enough, the 
wide difference between his father, with his polish and 
elegance, and Miss Lancaster, who with all her many 
excellencies, yet was lacking in the graces that distin- 
guished Morrison Kenric. (But for all that, Marjorie — 
was Marjorie unique and adorable.) 

What were Miss Lancasters feelings towards his 
father, after these many years, he did not care to ask ; 
but he fancied that he understood, now, the secret of 
her tenderness and indulgence towards himself, and his 
heart was eager to give some expression to the senti- 
ment of reverent and grateful admiration with which he 
regarded the woman who had been so faithful a friend 
in time of need, the woman who also had been a mother 
to Marjorie. It was no transient emotion that moved 
him. That afternoon, while his father and Miss Fish 
and Miss Wallis were out driving, he sent an urgent 
message for Miss Penny to come to him. 

Miss Penny was shelling beans in the large store- 
room that opened on the gallery leading to the kitchen ; 
but when Harry’s man, a solemn, middle-aged sample 
of dignity, brought her the message, she dropped her 
pan, scattering the beans, in a great fright. * ‘ What is 
the matter? ” she demanded, anxiously. “Is he — is he 
worse ? ” 

“Apparently quite the same, ma’am,” replied Rob- 
bins, with stiff propriety looking neither to the right nor 
left. “He gives his orders, and I obey.” Robbins 
prided himself upon being a gentleman’s gentleman 
comme ily en a peu. 

Miss Penny pulled off her hat and her big apron, 
washed her hands in the tin basin that stood ever ready, 
wiped them on the big roller-towel, and went up to 
Harry’s room, wondering if what he wished to say to 
her might concern Marjorie. 

“ Dear Miss Lancaster,” said Harry, with effusion, 
as she entered, “ if I could rise, I would not receive 
you, sitting.” 

“Oh,” said Miss Penny, brusquely, being a little con- 
fused by his manner, “ I don’t see any need for all that 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 283 

•^—ceremony. What’s the matter ? Didn’t your dinner 
suit you ? ” 

“My dinner was perfection, but I wanted to see you,” 
he answered, and held out his hand. 

Miss Penny with growing confusion, and hardly con- 
scious what she did, put her hand in his, and felt him 
draw her nearer. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Miss Lancaster?” he whispered, 
shyly. 

The request seemed to Miss Penny unpardonably im- 
pertinent. She resented being made sport of. “Kiss 
you, you saucy young monkey ! ” she exclaimed, with 
angry recoil. “ I’ve a mind to box you soundly.” 

“ Dear Miss Lancaster ! ” said Harry, ruefully. “Are 
you not willing that I should love you ? ” 

“You impudent jackanapes ! Is this your gratitude 
for all the care I’ve lavished upon you ? ” cried Miss 
Penny, trembling with indignant rage. The interview 
which Harry had expected to prove so rich in a charm- 
ing sentiment, threatened to become grotesquely ludi- 
crous. Miss Penny, believing herself the victim of a 
joke devised between this idle invalid and the stately 
Robbins, was furious accordingly. “Make love to me, 
indeed ! Have you no respect for my gray hairs? ” 

Now Miss Penny had hardly six gray hairs in her 
head. 

“I don’t see the gray hairs,” returned Harry. “I 
don’t know they are there ; but I have the profoundest 
respect, all the same. My father has just been telling 
me that you —you are the brave woman who rescued 
him ; and you were too modest to tell me yourself ! I 
could have gone down on my knees to you, that even- 
ing in the pavilion, only to have known it.” 

Miss Penny had dropped upon a chair, ashamed, and 
sorry, and glad, and vexed with herself, and distinctly 
conscious that she was now beginning to reap a harvest 
that did not grow in fields. “It was all over and done 
with so long ago,” she faltered, the tears in her eyes. 

“It will never be over and done with so long as I 
live ! ” cried Harry warmly. “I must love you for that 
all my days. And won’t you kiss me, now, Miss Lan- 
caster ? ” 

And between laughing and crying, Miss Penny kissed 


284 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

him. ‘‘How could I ever dream wnat you meant?” 
she stammered, wiping her eyes. 

“I want you to — to think of me as a son,” Harry 
entreated. “ For Marjorie’s dear sake, you know.” 

“ Marjorie ! ” ejaculated Miss Penny ; and not a word 
more could she say. 

“I have told my father all,” pursued Harry, eagerly. 
“ He needs only to see her, to understand ho w impossible 
it is, I should ever give her up.” 

“ And your father objects to Maijorie ? ” Miss Penny 
said, with slow interrogation. 

“ He will wait until he see her,” Harry asserted, con- 
fidently. “When is she coming downstairs? Won’t 
you take her a note from me, dear Miss Lancaster? ” 

He was absolutely sure that Miss Penny was on his 
side, but Miss Penny said “No.” 

“ Only to beg her to come down ; only to say that 
my father wishes to see her? ” entreated Harry, in acute 
surprise. 

“No,” said Miss Penny, again. 

“You — surely you are not against us ? ” stammered 
Harry. 

“ I will be no go-between,” said Miss Penny, inex- 
orably. 

“ But,” remonstrated Harry, perplexed and distressed, 
“ there is nothing clandestine about it.” 

“No,” said Miss Penny, turning irately away ; “no 
more clandestine than a cattle-show. And are we cattle 
do you think, that Marjorie is to be summoned before 
your father, for him to pass judgment upon her ? ” 

And she swept from the room, leaving Harry as- 
tounded and humiliated, with tears of rage and shame 
in his eyes. 

In his trouble and perplexity, he decided to appeal to 
Miss Wallis, between whom and himself there existed a 
frank friendship ; as soon, therefore, as she had re- 
turned from her drive, he sent for her, and she came 
promptly at his bidding. 

“ Oh, you stupid boy ! ” she cried, with peals of 
laughter, when she had heard his story. “ That ever 
you should have made such a blunder ! Confess with 
me now, that you admire Miss Lancaster's spirit ? You 
must remember that she comes of the blood of the 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 285 

Donalds, who are entitled to hold up their heads with 
the best." 

“ But you know I didn’t mean " 

“ Oh, how many times are you going to tell me that 
you didn't mean a cattle-show P ” 

“Well, what, then, is to be done? ” said Harry, with 
a little rueful smile. “You owe it to me to take my 
part, for I might have made it horrid for you, you know 
but instead of that " 

“ Instead of that, you’ve been a model of filial acqui- 
escence ? ” Miss Wallis suggested, laughing. 

“Yes I And of filial delicacy," Harry declared. 
“ I’ve been too discreet, too considerate, too respectful 
to appeal to my father on the score of that fellow-feel- 
ing that ought to make him wondrous kind. A young 
fellow in love ought to command the reverent sympathy 
of an old fellow in the same predicament." 

“ Predicament /" exclaimed Miss Wallis. “ But your 
father is not old you will please remember." 

“ No ; he is not old ; he is young, he is ardent, he is 
sublimated devotion ; and ’’ 

“ Harry 1 " 

“ And he has only to see Marjorie, to comprehend 
that I can never give her up." 

“It will be better to let their meeting come about in 
the natural order of things," said Miss Wallis. “ Do you 
not see that it will never, never do to let Marjorie suspect 
that she is to be on exhibition ? " 

“ Of course you are right," Harry returned, with a 
mighty sigh. “ But — delays are dangerous, you know ; 
and here is Miss Fish, clamoring to get us all away 
from here. Hang Miss Fish 1 I wish she were where 
all the other fishes are 1 " 

Miss Wallis laughed. “Poor Miss Fish !" she said, 
amiably; and then she sighed. “If you only knew how 
anxious / am to get away from here, Harry," she mur- 
mured. 

“ j You l" exclaimed Harry. “ Why, this is the land, 
just here, on this farm, where it is always afternoon ; 
what better could one ask in summer-time ! ’’ 

“ It is certainly very charming," Miss Wallis admitted. 

“ And I should die at that hotel ! ’’ Harry declared, 
with vehemence. “The noise, and the bustle — you’ve 


286 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


no idea how nervous I am, since that tumble down the 
bluff. I must have quiet and repose. ” 

“ Of course,” said Miss Wallis, smiling. “ We have 
only to enlist Dr. Griffith on our side.” 

“ Ah, what an angel of a diplomatist you are ! ” 

Miss Wallis shook her head. “ No one can be more 
wise than destiny,” she murmured, smiling faintly. 

“ I wonder if she is not happy? ” thought Harry, un- 
easily, when she was gone. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

“a sweet, complaining grievance. 

The next morning there came about the much-de- 
sired meeting between Morrison Kenric and Marjorie ; 
and it came about through Miss Penny’s management, 
after all, though without any planning for that end. 

Marjorie, the Doctor had said, was suffering from ner- 
vous prostration ; but Miss Penny did not know what 
that meant, and when she found that Marjorie had no 
fever, that her headache was gone, and her appetite 
was returning, she thought the time had come for the 
girl to be about her duties ; moping, in Miss Penny’s 
estimation, was the worst possible thing for body and 
mind. Moreover, Miss Penny had found her Uncle 
Joe impossible to manage ; she was at her wits’ end 
what to do with a man who said he was ill, yet refused 
to see the doctor, who kept his bed, though he had no 
fever, and no pain, and no loss of appetite. In such a 
case, Miss Penny felt that she must rely upon Marjorie 
for a cure. 

“It is nothing but a whim, Marjorie, lam sure,” 
said Miss Penny ; “but if he lies up in bed in this way, 
it will end in making him ill. You must coax him out. ” 

So Marjorie dressed, and came downstairs, the next 
morning, which was the third day after Memory Waits’ 
death. Very pale she was, and very sad ; but she 
found it a relief to escape from her thoughts to the free 
air, and she was glad to see her garden again. She. 


PENNY LANCASTER , , FARMER. 2 8 7 

was gathering a bouquet wherewith to cheer her Daddy 
Joe, when Morrison Kenric chanced to espy her. He 
could not see her face for the big hat she wore, but he 
had an intuition that this must be the girl upon whom 
his son, unfortunately, had set his callow affections. 
The opportunity was not to be slighted ; he strode 
across the grass, and was by her side before she had 
seen him. 

Marjorie was not afflicted, like poor old Gentleman 
Joe, with a dread of encountering Morrison Kenric; she 
had, indeed, a strong desire to meet him ; and she 
could not have met him under more favorable circum- 
stances. For the flower-garden was Marjories own 
domain, and she had so long been undisputed mistress 
here, that she could hardly fail to feel entirely at her 
ease when she welcomed a stranger to her blooming 
borders. For the time being, this handsome, elaborate, 
stately man of manners was her guest, and she smiled 
upon him hospitably, and talked to him of her flowers, 
with an utter unconsciousness of being under inspection, 
until he said : 

“I believe it is you to whom my son feels indebted 
for his life. I have to thank you for a brave deed. ” 

“ Oh !” said Marjorie, her face flushing painfully. 
“ It seemed easy to do.” She pushed back her hat, 
and as she did so, Kenric caught the likeness that Miss 
Fish had seen. 

“Strange! Strange!” he murmured, with a slight 
start. “A second reminder ! ” 

“Strange that one should try to save — a life?” said 
Marjorie, smiling. “Any one would do that.” 

“ Perhaps so, ” Kenric responded, somewhat absently. 
It had surprised him — rather unpleasantly ; for who is 
ever pleased at the sudden refutation of a cherished preju- 
dice ? — to find that this girl was not “rustic,” at least 
in any unfavorable sense. The impression she made 
in her own person, was certainly not unfavorable ; 
but — the daughter of Gentleman Joe Lancaster of the 
Cross-roads store ! A most undesirable connection. 
He could not make up his mind to accept it, and with 
the skill of a diplomat, he set to work to impress Mar- 
jorie with the certainty that between herself and his son 
there was a great gulf fixed, that love was powerless to 


288 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


bridge. Apropos of the rescue at Kimberly Bridge, he 
enlarged with a pardonable pride upon his son’s talents, 
and the promise of his youth, spoke of the loss his 
death might have been to the circle in which he moved, 
and dwelt with some emphasis upon the esteem in 
which Harry was held by this, and that, and the other 
person of distinction, in that great world of which she 
knew nothing. 

He did not mean to be cruel ; he meant only to be 
wise and nip a folly in the bud. But his words had all 
the effect of cruelty. Marjorie felt as if he were tramp- 
ling upon her heart, and his calmness seemed to her 
fiend-like. For Marjorie’s was no obtuse, bucolic 
intellect ; she understood perfectly that every word 
he uttered in the tone of courteous thanks, was uttered 
with the distinct purpose of showing her how different 
was the world to which Harry Kenric belonged from 
that in which her days had passed. 

Marjorie was not ambitious ; she was only tender and 
loving, and self sacrificing — and very proud. She bow- 
ed her head to the stroke of fate, and gave no sign that 
Morrison Kenric could read. Upon a summons from 
Robbins that the Doctor had come, he went away to 
his son’s room, sorely troubled to decide whether her 
serenity were the effect of obstinate determination, or 
of an obtuseness equally fatal. 

In obedience to a sense of duty, Marjorie had told 
Miss Penny the secret of her heart, and her reward had 
been to find a sympathy, a tenderness, a comprehension 
that had forever banished the old timid shyness, so that 
Marjorie went to her now, sure of comfort and support 
Miss Penny was in the big store-room, busy, according 
to her wont, like a provident farmer, sorting her collec- 
tion of garden- seed. 

“Cousin Penny,” said Marjorie, a little frown pucker- 
ing her straight brows, “ are you anxious to have these 
strangers staying here ? ” 

“Certainly not,” replied Miss Penny, crisply ; “they 
may go any day they please, for aught I care.” 

“Can’t you make them understand that the sooner 
they go, the better ? In a kindly way, you know ? ” 

“What is the matter, Marjorie?” Miss Penny de- 
manded with sharp scrutiny. ‘ ‘ It isn’t so many days 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 2 Sg 

since you told me that nothing could come between you 
and Harry Kenric to separate you.” 

“ I had not known — his father, then , ” said Marjorie, 
with a sigh that was almost a sob. 

“ And what has he said to you ? ” 

“Nothing that was not kind; but he has made 
me understand that — we are — not the same people; 
and ” 

“We are human, I reckon,” interrupted Miss Penny, 
tartly; “and we have hearts that won't bear to be 
trampled on. ” 

By a great effort, Marjorie restrained her tears. “I 
have found out this,” she said, turning away, “that — 
it is better to part. ” 

“ Evil be the day that a sentiment for the past be- 
guiled me into opening my doors to people whose 
memory for me was dead, dead / ” said Miss Penny, 
with bitter emphasis. 

“ Why,” stammered Marjorie, pausing beside the 
door, and staring in surprise, “did you — know them 
before now ? ” 

“ Long ago ! ” Miss Penny answered. “ I knew Mor- 
rison Kenric well. But don't you go to think, Marjorie, 
that I was any fool about him,” she said, with flaming 
cheeks, as she put the girl aside, and went out. 

Miss Penny went at once to seek Miss Wallis whom 
she found sitting in a listless attitude, lost in thought, 
near the window of her room, shadowed by the cherry 
trees. 

“I did not mean ever to speak to you again,” said 
Miss Penny abruptly ; “but it is for Marjorie’s sake ; and 
there is never time to leave undone the good we might 
do. I do not know what words have passed between 
the man you are to marry and the child I have cared 
for as my own ; but she has been given to understand 
that she is not good enough for Harry Kenric. I sup- 
pose that is what it amounts to, in plain talk.” 

Miss Wallis essayed to speak, but Miss Penny would not 
be interrupted. “I know Marjorie,” she went on. 
“ No dove could be softer or gentler ; but she is as proud 
as any Kenric, if you like. Her heart may break, and 
his heart may break — which is a less matter in my sight 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


290 

— but she will never see Harry Kenric again unless 
his father asks it. 

“ They are children,” said Miss Wallis, slowly. "It 
will pass.” 

An estimable woman was Miss Penny Lancaster but, 
though she came of the blood of the Donalds. 

“ Her manners had not that repose 
Which marks the caste of Vere de Vere.” 

She turned upon Miss Wallis violently ; "you yourself 
told me that Marjorie is no longer a child,” she said, with 
angry eyes ; " and you know very well why I came to 
you. It may make a difference if you tell Morrison 
Kenric that you too are a Lancaster.” 

"I will not ! ” Miss Wallis cried, with answering anger. 
" Not yet ! not yet ! It is in your power to humiliate 
me and ruin my future — but tell him I will not ! It is 
too much to ask that I should sacrifice myself for Mar- 
jorie — this girl of whose existence I knew nothing until 
I came here. Ah ! until I came here, I was happy and 
secure. ” 

"If you choose to call truth a sacrifice, ” said Miss 
Penny coldly ; "it is the truth I have asked of you. As 
for Marjorie's cause God will take care of that ; but as for 
you — how can you tell that you were ever secure in a 
secret that means a lie ? Some day the revelation will 
come when least you look for it, and in a way you least 
expect. ” 

Miss Wallis sprang up and threw her arms around 
Miss Penny. “ Have some pity for me ! ” she entreated. 
"Aunt Penny! Aunt Penny ! If you knew what I 
suffer ! ” 

But Miss Penny pushed her away. "I will not be 
your Aunt, shut up in this room,” she said proudly, 
"and a stranger before the world. I have renounced 
you ; rest assured, / will never be the one to proclaim 
my relationship to you. But what a sorry creature 
Morrison Kenric must have grown to be, if ” 

She broke off with a harsh laugh, and abruptly quitted 
the room. 

Majorie had carried her bouquet to Daddy Joe, who 
was propped up in bed, reading a well-worn volume of 
Horace. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


291 

“I was a promising scholar in my youth, Marjorie,” 
he said, with a childish satisfaction at being caught with 
the classic volume in his hands. 

“ Ah, but you ought to be out in the sunshine,” said 
Majorie caressingly, as she laid her flowers across the 
page. “You are not ill ; you are just playing possum, 
you know.” 

“ Non possum ” said the student of Horace, with a 
feeble laugh at his feeble wit “I don’t like strangers, 
Majorie,” he sighed clinging to her. “I am always 
afraid they will take you from me, some day. ” 

“ No,” said Marjorie. “ No. dear Daddy Joe ; I am a 
little plain, country girl, and these are grand people ; 
they will have nothing to do with me. His father has 
been talking to me, and I am not going to see Harry 
Kenric, ever again.” 

“ What did he say to you, Maijorie ? ” cried Mr. Lan- 
caster, starting up wildly. 

“Not much; and he was very kind. But he made 
me understand that — that — I am not the sort of person 
he expects his son to marry.” 

“And you love the young fellow, Marjorie, my girl? 
That is what has come to you?” Mr. Lancaster ques- 
tioned, eagerly, seeking her eyes. 

Marjorie did not answer ; she pressed her two hands 
across her heart, and looked at him with dumb despair. 

Mr. Lancaster fell back, and hid his face in the pillows 
with a groan . 

“Oh, my Daddy Joe, my dear!” cried Marjorie, as 
she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face 
beside his. “I have only you,” she sobbed. “But 
you do love me ; and I do love you. ” 

“Yes, you blessed child ! ” he sobbed in answer. 

“And we will be happy again, when these strangers 
are gone.” 

Mr. Lancaster was silent. 

“You won’t be always shut up in this room, dear 
Daddy ; you will come out into the sunshine, and see 
my flowers ? ” 

“Yes, Marjorie.” 

“And you will have a new fiddle, and play the old 
tunes, and the old times shall come back.” 

“No, Marjorie, I reckon not; old joys never come 


29 2 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER . 


again. Kiss me, my child. I am going to make a 
great effort, Marjorie, you shall see.” 

Awed by his manner, Marjorie kissed him mutely. 

“ Have I been a good father to you, my little one? ” 
he asked, plaintively, as he stroked her hair. 

“Oh, the best, the best that ever was,” sighed Mar- 
jorie, clinging to him. 

“And you think your old Daddy Joe’s love is enough 
for your young life ? When these grand strangers go 
away you 11 be quite content ? ” 

“Quite — content,” Marjorie sighed. 

“No, you wouldn’t! You couldn’t! ” said Daddy 
Joe, sadly. “ Don’t you goto think it, child. You’d pine 
and pine ; only you’d never let on anything troubled 
you, for you’re like your mother. But I’d know it, and 
t’ would break my heart. You shall have your rights, 
Marjorie ; I ain’t goin ’ to deceive you no more.” 

Marjorie was troubled; she thought he was talking at 
random. “I am not pining,” she said, forcing a smile. 

“ Come, now, and see my garden ? ” 

“Not now, not now, child. I must have time to 
think. I’ll make it all straight ; don’t you fear. Only 
leave me to think in quiet.” 

And with a little sigh of perplexity, Marjorie went 
away. 

Harry Kenric, all unconscious of the interview 
he was interrupting, had sent for his father to see Dr. 
Griffith. ‘ ‘To think,” said he, in comic amazement, 
“that you two should have known each other, years 
ago ! Why didn’t you speak up, like a man and own the 
acquaintance when I first met you ! I remember I 
asked you the direct question.” 

“Now,” thought the Doctor, “am I to tell this young 
sprig that Penny Lancaster is at the bottom of that bit 
of evasion? No, by thunder ! None of his business.” 
He shrugged his shoulders, and said a little pompously : 

“ The acquaintance had lapsed, sir, lapsed. Did not 
know that it was for me to renew it.” 

“And is all Little Warrenton established in Briar- 
ville ? ” asked Morrison Kenric. 

“ Two of the — protagonists. So to speak,” answered 
the Doctor, and colored furiously. 

“And you’ve not changed a hair,” said Kenric, with 
supreme amusement, as he caught upon the Doctor’s 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


293 

countenance the same expression of vexed uneasiness 
he had been wont to exhibit in the days of his acute 
jealousy. 

“Gray, sir ! Gray as a badger/’ said the Doctor, in 
deprecation of flattery. “But the heart ; the heart, sir, 
is the test of youth. ” 

“About our young friend, here, if you please, Dr. 
Griffith ? ” Miss Fish broke in, harshly. She was present 
with a view to influencing the Doctor’s opinion in ac- 
cordance with her own wishes, and she was impatient 
at this interchange of pleasantry. “Wouldn’t you ad- 
vise his immediate removal to the hotel ? Away from 
these melancholy associations, you know ? ” 

“ Um ! ” said the Doctor. “Does the patient desire it ? ” 

“Not at all!” exclaimed Harry, quickly. “I’m 
not in the least melancholy. I’m nervous ; I’d die of the 
noise at the hotel. But Miss Fish need not stay ; there 
is no reason why she should martyrize herself for me.” 

“Harry,” said Miss Fish, with lofty severity, “I’ve 
been the friend of the Kenric family all my life ; and I’ve 
always been ready to serve them. I consider it my 
duty to inform your father of that lamentable infatuation 
to which I regret to say, you have fallen a victim. 
Your nervousness is a mere subterfuge.” 

“ Hey, diddle-diddle ? ” exclaimed the Doctor, thrown 
completely off his guard by this outburst. “Hum! 
Ha ! Beg pardon ! ” 

“Sir P” said Miss Fish. 

“ Beg pardon ! ” repeated the Doctor. “ Perceive I 
am de trop” (The Doctor rarely used a French expres- 
sion, but when he did, he pronounced it like the plainest 
English). “ I would remark that the patient is doing 
very well. Very well, indeed ; just where he is. 
Don’t approve of moving him. Let him be kept quiet 
Bid you good-morning ! ” 

He bowed to the room at large, backed towards the 
door, and there boldly made a stand, while Miss Fish 
glared at him. “Should not be moved for the next — 
fortnight, at least” he said, deliberately. . “ Good- 
morning, madam. See the young man again.” And 
before Miss Fish had recovered speech, he had slipped 
through the door. As he pulled it to, after him, he 
shook his fist at the panels. “ Piratical old meddler ! ” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


294 

he growled. “Want to make me particeps criminis , 
eh ? Rather walk that log across Cedar Roaring, than 
stay shut up with you, madam ! Ha ! ” he chuckled, 
beating his breast, as he clattered down stairs. “Old 
bachelor, but young heart. And I’m on Cupid’s side, 
sir ! God bless Marjorie, say I ! ” 

Harry, with his head in the pillows, was exploding 
with laughter. 

“Upon my word!” said Miss Fish, after a breathless 
pause. 

“My dear Miss Fish,” said Morrison Kenric, frown- 
ing darkly with annoyance — having seen nothing to 
smile at — “ pray let me assure you that my son has no 
secrets from me. I understand the position of affairs 
perfectly. ” 

“And what, then, are you going to do? "inquired 
Miss Fish, the Irrepressible. 

Kenric walked away to the window, still frowning ; 
he made no reply until he came back again, when he 
said serenely : 

“ Nothing precipitate.” 

“ If you mean by that — ” Miss Fish began, but was 
interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Come in !” sang out Harry; and Robbins ap- 
peared, stiff with dignity. “ What is it, Robbins ? ” 

“ If you please, sir, the man Johnson, to see you , 
sir,” Robbins announced, looking at Harry with em- 
phasis in his eyes, as well as in his voice. 

“ Let him come up ! ” said Harry, carelessly. 

Robbins did not stir. 

“ Let him come up ! ” Harry repeated. 

“To see you , sir,” Robbins said again, immovable, 
except as to his eyes which rolled in their sockets sig- 
nificantly, back and forth from Harry’s father to Miss 
Fish. “ Private business, as I understand, sir. Lost 
property. ” 

“ I haven’t lost anything, have I ? ” asked Harry. 

“ Yes, sir,” Robbins answered, still rolling his 
eyes. 

“ Well, Harry,” said Kenric, laughing at Robbin’s 
agony of pantomime, “we will retire, and let you have 
a private interview.” 

Miss Fish rose reluctantly, for she was consumed by 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


295 

curiosity, and she sat down again very promptly when 
Harry said : 

“ Oh, don t go ! I’ve no secrets, thank Heaven ! I 
haven’t the least idea what Robbins means by his ocular 
gymnastics. What have I lost, Robbins ? ” 

11 A locket, sir ! ” said Robbins, desperately. 

Harry started up with an inarticulate cry. Marjorie’s 
little silver locket ! And he had not even missed it, in 
the strange confusion of bliss, and pain, and languor, 
and sorrow, that followed upon that disastrous night, 
after the fall of the bridge ! “ Let him come up at 

once ! ” he said impatiently. “Tell him to make 
haste ! ” 

Robbins disappeared, marvelling much. Of all the 
young gentlemen he had ever waited upon, Mr. Harry 
Kenric was the most “ unconcealing ” : but he had done 
his duty, which under any circumstances, was bound to 
be a consolation. 

In a few moments, Johnson came in, grinning affably. 
He was not a man to be in the least abashed by an in- 
troduction to Morrison Kenric and Miss Fish, and he 
offered his hard brown hand to esach in turn, with a 
hearty good-will. “ Glad to meet ye, sir ! Glad to 
know ye, ma’am,” he declared, in loud, stridulous tones : 
and to Harry, “Hope ye air bettering. Eh ? ” Then 
he sat down, and wiped his glowing face upon a blue 
cotton handkerchief. 

“ Thanks,” said Harry. “I am doing very well, the 
Doctor thinks. But it’s slow work.” 

“ Be thankful ye air no worse,” said Johnson, so- 
lemnly. “ Ye must be a man for luck, I’ll allow,” he 
added, as he drew from his pocket a small brown paper 
parcel, and began slowly to unfold it “ My half- 
sister’s son, Luke, he found thisher at the bottom o’ the 
bluff whar ye fell. I’d a notion it mought be the gal’s, 
but that ’un with buttons, ye know, an’ the ramrod in 
his back-bone, he said how it’s yourn ; an’ I reckon a 
dollar ’ll pay Luke fur his trouble.” 

“Yes, it’s mine!” said Harry, stretching out his 
hand, eagerly. “ Not for a thousand dollars would I 
have lost it ! Father, pay him something handsome for 
the boy. ” 

But as Johnson leaned forward to put the locket into 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


296 

Harry’s hand, Kenric interposed, saying, *‘ Excuse me !” 
and took the trinket, himself, looking at it with a curi- 
ously startled expression, and quite oblivious of his 
son’s request that Johnson should be paid ‘‘something 
handsome.” 

“Well, then,” said Johnson, in awkward reminder, 
“I may as well be goin’, eh? ” 

“Pay him what you please, Harry,” said Kenric, 
tossing his purse to his son ; and he walked away to the 
window with the locket. 

When Johnson had made his acknowledgments for 
a ten-dollar piece, and was gone, Kenric came to his 
son’s bedside, his face pale, his eyes burning. 

“What is the matter? ” inquired Miss Fish, with over- 
powering curiosity. 

But he did not heed hen 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MARJORIE DEAR. 

“Where did you get this? "Kenric asked, turning 
towards his son. 

“ It is hers, ” answered Harry ; * ‘ Marjorie’s. Why ? ” 

“Where did she get it? Do you know what that 
letter L. stands for ? ” 

“Surely, for Lancaster ?” replied Harry, bewildered. 
“What else should it stand for ? ” 

“Ah, that is what they tell you ? How came the 
girl to be in possession of this ? ” 

“It was her mother’s.” 

Kenric started. “Her mother's ? Her mother’s?" 
he repeated, with incredulous emphasis. “It can not 
be!” 

“ But Marjorie is incapable of deception,” said Harry, 
with some warmth. 

“Her mother !” Kenric repeated again. “Strange, 
there is a likeness to Laura Dent ; Miss Fish, have you 
not noticed it ? ” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


297 

“ Oh, a slight, general likeness,” Miss Fish replied 
u Laura did have that kind of oval face and sedate 
expression. But what that can have to do with the 
locket, I am at a loss to see.” 

‘ ‘ This locket was my gift to my cousin, Laura Dent. 
The question is, how did it come into the possession of 
old Joe Lancaster’ s daughter, here on this Georgiafarm ?” 

“He surely can tell, sir, ’’said Harry. “I know 
nothing more than that it was her mother’s.” 

“ Where is Mr. Lancaster ? Send Robbins to ask him 
to see me. Perhaps from him I may learn something 
of my cousin, ” said Kenric, eagerly. The day that he 
went to Mrs. Standridge, in Little Warrenton, for sym- 
pathy, came vividly back to him, and he sighed in 
retrospective self-pity at the memory of the keenest 
pang of his youth. “I tried to find out something 
about her, in Colorado,” he said, sadly; “ but I could 
only learn that she had suffered the extremity of poverty 
before she married a second time. ” 

“Oh,” said Miss Fish, with comfortable assurance, 
“You may depend upon it that Laura understood tak- 
ing care of herself. It was her own fault, that move to 
the West I always advised against it, but I wasn’t 
heeded. So long as Mr. Cameron remained where he 
was known, he managed his affairs with judgment and 
success ; but he was too old a man for a new country. 

I told Laura so, over and over again, and I suppose 
now she wishes she had made her husband listen to 
good advice. Mr. Cameron’s health, that was the plea. 
He went to Colorado, and entered into the wildest 
speculations, and of course he lost every cent. You see, 
Harry, what happens, when people will not listen to 
advice. ” 

“Thanks. I am not going to Colorado,” said Harry, 
dryly. 

Kenric smiled, but the smile was quickly lost in a 
sigh. 

“However, the family have nothing to reproach 
themselves with,” continued Miss Fish, complacently, 
after she had stabbed Harry with a look. “ I know 
the Morrisons offered to help her hy taking two of the 
children — I don’t know how many there were — but 
Laura was always obstinate ; she had her own ideas, 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


298 

and she stuck to them. I haven’t half the sympathy I 
might have had for her, if she had only been open to 
advice ; and perhaps she is just as well satisfied to be 
forgotten. ” 

“ Do not speak of her in that way, I beg of you ! ” 
said Kenric. “ Laura was once very dear to me, and 
I have not forgotten her. ” 

“Really, Morrison, I should think that out of regard 
for Miss Wallis you would keep your old absurdities 
buried in oblivion,” remonstrated Miss Fish. 

“Did you ring for Robbins, Harry?” his father 
asked, disdaining to reply to Miss Fish. 

“Yes, sir; and here he is now.” 

“Ah! Robbins, will you see Miss Lancaster, and 
ask her to say to Mr. Lancaster, that I will take it as a 
particular favor if he will meet me, as soon as possible, 
in the parlor, Robbins ; say in the parlor. I won’t 
trouble him to mount the stairs,” he said, turning to his 
son. 

“Surely, surely, you don’t believe he came by that 
locket wrongfully?” cried Harry, in great anxiety. 
“You will do nothing to humiliate him ? ” he entreated. 
“For his daughter’s sake ! For my sake j ” 

“I think you may trust me, ’’said his father, a little 
coldly. “I must learn the truth, that is all.” 

“If you will allow me, I will go with you,” said Miss 
Fish, as Kenric was leaving the room. “Though she 
never would take my advice, I am interested to hear 
about poor, dear Laura. ” 

Kenric made no reply ; but she followed, nevertheless. 
When they entered the parlor, they found Miss Wallis 
seated there. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she exclaimed, starting up in 
alarm at Kenric’s pale and frowning face. 

“ Nothing that need make you tremble so,” he 
answered, reassuringly, as he took her hand. “ It is 
only that I have been brought, somewhat suddenly, face 
to face with the past.” 

She gave a little gasp, and clung to his arm. 

“ How very nervous you are this morning, my dear,” 
said Miss Fish. “Perhaps you’d better not stay. 
Morrison has to see old Mr. Lancaster about — well, 
about a matter that concerns only the past.” 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


299 

“ Pardon me,” said Kenric. “If she will stay, I 
shall be glad. There is nothing in my past I am not 
willing Miss Wallis should know.” 

But Miss Wallis did not receive the compliment with 
her wonted grace. Miss Penny’s direful words, “a lie 
bears bitter fruit, ” repeated themselves in her brain. 
Her color fluctuated from red to white, from white to 
red ; a faintness came over her ; she gasped for breath. 

“It is the odor of these honey-suckles,” she faltered, 
turning to pull down the window. 

Kenric sprang to help her. “ Pray, sit here,” he said, 
putting her into a chair. “You are not well.” 

“Oh, yes, I am,” she answered, with a faint smile; 
but she was very pale. 

“I will go for your smelling-salts,” said Miss Fish, 
and bustled away. 

“You see I am quite well,” she repeated, as her color 
slowly returned. “ What were you saying about — Mr. 
Lancaster ? ” 

“ Oh — you’ve met him, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered. 

“How does he strike you ; as an honest man, for 
instance ? In word and deed? ” 

“Certainly,” said Miss Wallis. The impulse to con- 
fess her relationship to poor old Gentleman Joe came 
upon her with maddening power ; she rose, trembling, 
and stretched out her hands. “ Hear me,” she faltered; 
but before she could gather strength for her unwilling 
confession, Miss Fish returned, and thrust the smelling- 
salts under her nose, and Miss Wallis felt that she had 
received a reprieve of fate. What would she not have 
given, at a later day, to live this opportunity over again ! 

“Why, my beautiful Anastasia,” said Kenric, “you 
are as bad as Harry 1 Do you take me for a monster 
of severity ? I assure you, I should be as sorry as your- 
self, to wound poor old Gentleman Joe.” 

Before Miss Wallis could reply, Mr. Lancaster came 
feebly into the room, dressed in his best, and freshly 
shaved. 

Kenric, remembering how the sobriquet Gentleman Joe 
had tickled his youthful fancy, felt a certain pleasure in 
perceiving its appropriateness : for Gentleman Joe had 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER . 


300 

the gift of manner ; he bore himself like a man who had 
made ready for a great occasion. 

“I am very happy to meet you, Mr. Kenric, sir; 
have known of you for many years past — a long-de- 
layed — pleasure, sir ! I — I’ve been expecting you to 
ask for me. I was ready to meet you at any time, sir ; 
any time, at your convenience.” 

“ I hope you haven’t put yourself to inconvenience,” 
said Kenric, touched by his haggard looks. “I could 
have gone to your room. ” 

“The occasion, sir, is worthy the effort, ” said Gentle- 
man Joe, with a wave of the hand, and a mighty sigh. 
“ If you will kindly allow me to sit down ? ” 

“Surely,” said Kenric. “I fancy we shall have 
much to say, for I wish to ask you — ” 

“No, no,” said Mr. Lancaster, lifting his hands im- 
ploringly. “Don’t deprive me of the merit of a 
voluntary confession ; though it comes late, sir, I was 
on my way before you sent for me. I only waited for 
— Marjorie — to leave me. I couldn’t bear her to hear 
what I have to say, for when she knows, she will not 
want to see my face again. I’ve done her a great 
wrong; but see, now, I will make amends.” He did 
not know that Marjorie stood in the door- way behind 
him, pale and frightened with her finger uplifted to 
command silence ; and no one dared send her away. 

“I will tell the truth about Marjorie,” continued Mr. 
Lancaster,” and give her up forever. For Marjorie 
ain’t mine, and she never was. I ain’t her father, and 
her name it ain’t Lancaster ” 

Before his audience could feel the full force of this 
most unlooked-for announcement, Marjorie uttered a 
cry, and sprang towards him. “It is not true! Oh, 
it is not true ! ” she insisted, as she put her arms around 
him. “Do not believe him, for he is ill ; he is not him- 
self when he says that. The earliest thing I can re- 
member is my Daddy Joe. Oh, my Daddy Joe ! my 
Daddy Joe ! How can you deny me, your own little 
Marjorie ? ” 

Mr. Lancaster burst into tears. “It’s the Lord’s 
truth, Marjorie,” he sobbed. “And that’s why I ain’t 
never let you call me father — I hadn’t no right.” 

Marjorie staggered back like one who receives a blow. 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. jqi 

“ Who ami? What ami?” she cried, despairingly. 

And Miss Penny with outstretched arms, answered 
from the door by which Marjorie had entered, “ You are 
mine, Marjorie ; mine still, mine always !” 

But Marjorie shrank from her ; she was not comforted ; 
she felt herself isolated from them all. 

Morrison Kenric had a horror of scenes. He frowned 
darkly, making up his mind that since there was to be 
a scene, he must bear his part in it with philosophic 
calm. “There can be no necessity, just now, for tell- 
ing us this,” he said with cold dignity. “But it is a 
question of great moment to me, how you came into 
possession of this locket ? ” 

“There is more to tell, Maijorie ! Marjorie!” said 
Mr. Lancaster piteously. He seemed to be conscious 
of her presence only ; he paid no heed to Morrison Ken- 
ric. “You wasn’t but the least bit of a baby when your 

father died, for your name it is Cameron ” 

“Cameron !” ejaculated Miss Fish and Morrison Ken- 
ric in a breath. 

“and there was nothing for your mother to live 

on, and three little sisters, and an old helpless grand- 
mother. I was in luck then ; I had struck a way to 
make money, and I give your father a lift ; but when 
he died, there wasn’t any money in his fam’ly, and 
hardly enough to eat ; and then the grandmother died, 
and the little sisters, and only you were left. And you 
were just the cunningest baby, and you took to me so 1 
It was your own notion to call me Daddy Joe. But 
sickness came, and want, and so at last your mother 
married me ; she married me for your sake.” 

He ceased, exhausted, and rested his head against 
Marjorie’s arm ; and she, trembling and bewildered, 
stroked his cheek, silent herself, amid the profound 
silence, that for a few seconds followed this confession. 

Kenric was the first to speak. The name Cameron 
had given him the clue to Mr. Lancaster’s story ; yet his 
whole being revolted against the statement that his cou- 
sin had become the wife of this shiftless nonentity. “ It 
is incredible!” he exclaimed. “Laura Dent, Laura 
Cameron, married to you ? ” 

A short, discordant laugh broke from Miss Penny's 
lips. She had recognized that this was the woman 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


302 

Morrison Kenric had loved in his youth ; that this was 
the woman whom, in the zeal of her sympathy for him, 
l ;he had promised herself to hate forever ! And this 
woman’s daughter, in whose veins ran no drop of Lan- 
caster blood, was the dearest thing Miss Penny knew. 
“What fools we are when we are young” she said, 
and laughed again. 

“I wasn’t good enough for her, I know; nothing 
like good enough for her, ” said poor old Gentleman Joe, 
abjectly ; “ but I loved her, and I fairly ached with pity 
for her, she was that slight ; it looked like a breath 
would blow her away. And I wanted to make things 
easy for her. She didn’t live but a few years, and 
when she died, she gave you to me, Marjorie ; and ray 
conscience was easy to keep you because I had money 
then. And when your kin would write and write, I 
wouldn’t let ’em know. There come more’n one letter 
from Morrison Kenric to this lawyer, and to that lawyer, 
tracing up your mother that was his cousin ; but I never 
let on I knew about her ; and though my luck quit me, 
and I got down in the world, Marjorie, I held on to 
you. I kept you out of your rights and chances in this 
life, because you were your mothers child, and I hadn’t 
nothin’ else to love ! ” 

He struggled to his feet, and turned a helpless appeal- 
ing look from one to another of the little group, who 
hardly yet realized the truth of his story. 

“Yes ; you loved me ! You did love me ! You do 
love me ! ” murmured Marjorie, her eyes full of tears, 
and her hand on his arm. 

“And I made myself a lie to you, Marjorie,” he con- 
tinued sadly, with averted mien; “and now you’ll 
despise me the rest of your days. It ain’t in nature you’d 
forgive me what I’ve done, and I’ll go away out of your 
sight, and leave you to them that have the right in blood 
to claim you,” 

“Dear child, for your mother’s sake!” said Kenric ; 
bul as he opened his arms to clasp her, Mr. Lancaster 
uttered a cry of anguish, covered his eyes with his 
hands, and staggered back into the chair he had just 
quitted. 

To that cry Marjorie’s heart responded, instantly. She 
evaded the arms of her new-found relative, and threw 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER . 


303 

herself on her knees beside her Daddy Joe. “ Despise 
you, you , my own dear Daddy ? ” she said, in tender re- 
proach. “When IVe been so long used to loving you, 
I could not live without you ! I won’t be given up ! My 
mother gave me to you, and you are the only father I 
have ever known ; let me be your child, always.” 

Involuntarily — even in spite of herself — Miss Wallis’s 
eyes sought Miss Penny’s, and through a mist of tears 
she met a look that spoke volumes of entreaty, of warn- 
ing, of reproach — of utter scorn ; but Miss Wallis, de- 
spite the tears in her eyes, was proof against that look. 
Was she to add another act to this little drama, to give 
another shock to this little audience ? Impossible ! 
And it was not so much lack of courage that prevented, 
as a keen sense of the ridiculous. Miss Wallis had no 
mind to be the heroine of a tragi-comedy ; another time, 
a more fitting occasion, — or better yet, silence , silence 
forever. And with the others she turned away, leaving 
Marjorie alone with her Daddy Joe. 

They did not speak much, these too, left alone in 
Miss Penny’s prim parlor; they had touched the ex- 
tremes of anguish and of joy, and their thoughts could 
find expression only in inarticulate murmurs and mute 
caresses. 

They knew not how long they had been there when 
Morrison Kenric came back. “Marjorie/’ he said, 
“ Robbins has rolled Harry out upon the upper ‘gallery’ 
— as you Southerners call a veranda — he cannot come 
to you ; will you go up to him ? ” 

“May I go, Daddy Joe?” Marjorie whispered, with 
a pretty blush. 

“You wouldn’t mind me, if I said no, I’m thinking,” 
Mr. Lancaster made answer, as a shy smile lighted up 
his sad eyes. 

There was never a nook so cosey as that big upper 
gallery, hung with honey-suckle, amid which vimineous 
lattice the mocking-birds built and sang ; and where the 
vines were not, the boughs of the cherry-trees made a 
shadow against the glaring day, while fanning the air 
with a murmurous rustle of leaves, ‘ ‘ delightful to the 
drowsy sense.” Here it was that Marjorie met Harry 
for the first time, after that night beside the waters of 
Cedar Roaring. 


$04 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


“Marjorie, it is wonderful ! ” he said. “My father 
has been telling me. But it makes no difference ; you 
are the same Marjorie to me ; Marjorie dear 1” 

And Marjorie was magnanimous ; she did not tell him 
how great a difference her Daddy Joe’s revelation had 
made to his father. 

“If only Memory had not died!” sighed Harry. 
“But for that, there would not be a shadow upon our 
joy.” 

Marjorie echoed his sigh. 

“ But we will never forget him, Marjorie. And 
neither shall others forget him. I have been thinking 
of a memorial. I don’t know what it had best be ; per- 
haps a new bridge, of stone, you know, with as com- 
memorative tablet inscribed to Memory.” 

Majorie looked at him, but did not speak. It seemed 
to her — knowing what she knew — an almost cruel irony 
to erect any such memorial to Memory Waits, and yet 
— what could she say against it? ” 

“ I know a young civil engineer, capital fellow 1 
would be glad to come down here and build it Don't 
you like the idea, Maijorie? I want it to pleas eyou.” 

Marjorie’s only answer was to burst into tears. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“love in sequel works with fate” 

For years Miss Fish had had a controlling voice in 
the affairs of the Kenric family, and very naturally she 
expected still to make her influence felt in this new 
crisis. “ Of course, you know, Anastasia, it is ridicu- 
lous for the girl to say she will not be separated from 
that old man,” she remarked to Miss Wallis, when they 
were alone together, after the scene of the morning. 
“ It is all very well as sentiment , but practically it is ab- 
surd. Fancy having that old — Indescribable forevtr 
around ? ” 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


3°5 

"To me — what an inspiration he would be ! ” sighed 
Miss Wallis. “I reverence him for his courage. In- 
describable , indeed ! ” 

< “ Courage ? As if it required courage to say that the 
girl belongs to better people than himself? I only 
wonder he never said it, long ago.” 

“ You know nothing about it, Miss Fish; Nothing” 
said Miss Wallis, sadly. 

“ I know this about it,” retorted Miss Fish. “He must 
he pensioned off, of course. It is the only way to be 
rid of him, I suppose.” 

“Try it ! ” Miss Wallis advised, maliciously. 

“I shall,” Miss Fish replied, serenely confident of 
carrying her point. 

Miss Fish held the opinion, not ill founded, indeed, 
that Miss Marjorie Cameron would profit by five or six 
months at a finishing school known to Miss Fish as un- 
approachable in the art of polishing. Marjorie, she 
argued, cut off from all the associations of her former 
life, would the more rapidly acquire that grace and 
style, that air of fashion, without which it would never 
do to present her to society. But to this admirable plan 
there was one drawback upon which Miss Fish had not 
counted. Marjorie the meek, Marjorie the dove-like, 
refused absolutely to listen to any plan that involved 
separation from her Daddy Joe. To every argument, 
to every sarcasm, she had but the one reply; and when 
Miss Fish spoke of a pension, she simply said that her 
Daddy Joe could not be paid to part from her. For 
three days, to Harry's inextinguishable mirth, Miss Fish 
contended the point, before she abandoned the struggle 
in disgust. 

“ It is absurd ! It is unreasonable ! It is ungrateful /” 
she declared to Miss Wallis. “ I was willing to be a 
friend to the girl for Harry’s sake ; but really it is too 
much to expect that we should consent to a perpetual 
association with that old remnant of humanity.” 

Miss Wallis sighed wearily. “It is impossible, my 
dear Miss Fish, to force an adjustment of this new re- 
lationship. It must be left to time, as to other influence 
than yours, I fancy. As for me, I am dying of this 
rural life ! I must have distraction ! I must be where 
I can see people, and forget — forget Miss Lancaster and 


PENNY LANCASTER, PARMER. 


306 

her farm forever. Let us go back to the hotel, Miss 
Fish ; immediately, if you please.” 

“But I think we are very well here Miss Fish ob- 
jected. “I can’t imagine why you are so anxious to 
leave. The hotel is not half so comfortable, and it is 
noisy.” Inconsistency was Miss Fish’s convenient 
jewel. 

“Oh, I can’t explain,” cried Miss Wallis. “It is as 
if some calamity hung over me — here. Let me get 
away ! ” 

“You are nervous,” said Miss Fish. “But upon the 
whole, I think it may be as well to go, ” she assented, after 
a pause. “ Marjorie will learn in time that her inex- 
perience cannot dispense with me. I will send into town 
this afternoon and secure our rooms. I dare say we 
shall find a very pleasant society at the hotel.” 

Before Miss Fish’s messenger returned from town, a 
carriage stopped at Miss Penny’s gate, and a lady 
alighted ; a tall and slender woman, dressed in black 
that glittered with jet. Her dark hair was turning gray, 
but her face retained a delicate prettiness in middle-age. 
Miss Penny, as she watched her coming up the walk, 
was distinctly conscious that she had seen her before, 
though she could not tell when nor where. The stran- 
ger was coming towards the house, but suddenly she 
changed her course and walked across the lawn to the 
pavilion, where Miss Fish and Miss Wallis were seated. 
Marjorie, not far away, was watering her flowers ; for 
Marjorie, to Miss Penny’s great joy, still felt that the 
farm was her home, that Miss Penny was her cousin. 

Evidently this visitor either knew the ladies in the 
pavilion, or she had a right to know them, for she was 
accorded a ready welcome, and after a few moments, 
Miss Fish called Marjorie, and presented her. 

“Some fashionable friend,” thought Miss Penny. 
“ Marjorie is entering her new world. ” And she turned 
away in bitterness of heart. 

But presently Marjorie came running after her, 
through the porch and into the hall. “Cousin!” she 
cried, breathlessly. “There is a lady with Miss Fish ; 
she wishes to see Mr. Kenric ” — for Marjorie had not 
yet learned to give him any other title — “She is an old 
friend — Mrs. Standridge.” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


3°7 


Miss Penny started. 

“ But she says I am not to tell him her name. Is he 
up stairs ? ” 

“ Never mind, child, ” said Miss Penny. “I will tell 
him myself. Belle’s and Henrietta’s friend,” she whis- 
pered to herself, as she went upstairs. “And what if 
she should know who Miss Wallis is, and should betray 
that secret ? ” 

To some people this would have been a sweet re- 
venge, but no thought of revenge had a place in Miss 
Penny’s heart; the dread of the pain, the shock, the hu- 
miliation to Kenric and to her niece made her faint. It 
was not possible to call Mrs. Standridge aside and 
entreat her silence ; the only course open was to tell 
Morrison Kenric the secret before Mrs. Standridge could 
tell him, and thus save him the shock of learning 
it first in public. In an instant Miss Penny’s de- 
cision was taken. She found Kenric sitting with his 
son, and unceremoniously called him aside. 

“ Do you remember Mrs. Standridge, of Little War- 
renton ? ” she asked. 

“Most certainly! What of her?” he demanded, 
eagerly, disturbed at Miss Penny’s serious face. 

“ She is here ; she wishes to see you. ” 

“ I shall be delighted ! ” he exclaimed. 

“But stay a moment,” said Miss Penny, laying her 
hand on his arm. “She — I am afraid that she may 
tell — what Miss Wallis does not wish to be known.” 

‘ * Does not wish to be know ? ” Kenric repeated, 
frowning. “ What riddle is this ? ” 

“I have come beforehand to tell you myself,” Miss 
Penny went on hurriedly. “Sooner or later you must 
know it — ” 

“Has Miss Wallis commissioned you to tell me?” 
Kenric intrrrupted. 

“No! No! I do it on my own responsibility. 
Poor fool ! she cannot be made to realize the folly of 
trying to keep such a secret.” 

“For Heaven’s sake l” cried Kenric. “What is it 
you would tell me ? ” 

“Only this,” Miss Penny answered, with a short 
laugh, “ Miss Wallis— the beautiful Miss Wallis whom 
you are to marry, is the child of my sister Henrietta ” 


308 PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 

Kenric recoiled. “It cannot be true ! ” he declared. 

“ Do you think I could be mistaken ? ” said Miss Pen- 
ny. “As a baby, she was the dearest thing I had ever 
known — my sister’s little Nannie ! And for the sake 
of that dear babyhood, I would guard her happiness 
now. ” 

“ If it is true, why has she never told me herself? ” 
Kenric asked, frowning. “ Why does she leave it to 
you ? ” 

“She does not leave it to me. She hopes I may 
never tell you. She could not endure you to know — 
because she loves you. She could not bear to have you 
know that you had promised to marry the granddaughter 
of the man who hept the tavern in Little Warrenton.” 

Kenric laughed harshly ; the idea was undoubtedly 
displeasing. 

“And because she loves you — respect her cowardice.” 

“She might have trusted me ! ’ he murmured. 

“So 1 felt ! So I knew ! ” exclaimed Miss Penny. 

“And yet you encouraged her silence ?” said Kenric, 
reproachfully, not unwilling to excuse Anastasia at some 
one’s else expense. 

“ Do you think I could do that? ” Miss Penny asked, 
indignantly. “ I knew who she was, the moment I saw 
her ; but until the day you came she said never a word 
to me in acknowledgment of kinship. I am ashamed 
of her ! ” she went on, vehemently. “I refuse to claim 
her! But you —you have no right to be ashamed of her, 
for she loves you. The fear of making you ashamed, 
makes her ignore her mother’s kindred. But my poor 
old father, the tavern-keeper is dead ; my Uncle Joe has 
never discerned that she is her mother’s daughter and as 
for me ” 

“ Why do you tell me all this, Penny ? ” said Kenric, 
“When you know that I have every reason to esteem 
you ? ” 

“I have told you, to spare you a shock. Perhaps 
Mrs. Standridge will say nothing ; but'if she does, you 
are prepared.” 

“ What a friend you are, Penny ! ” Kenric exclaimed, 
grasping her hands in both his own. “Aren’t you 
coming with me to see Mrs. Standridge ? I am sure 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 309 

she would like to see you ; you are far better worth the 
visit than I. ” 

But Miss Penny said “No,” and turned away. She 
wished only to be alone. Her heart was very sad. 
She thought of the days long gone, when her highest 
ambition had been to possess a farm of her own ; and 
now, though she had achieved this ambition, she found 
herself, somehow defrauded of the best that life can 
give. Though she had won the highest esteem of the 
community in which she lived, her sister’s child recoiled 
from acknowledging kinship with her, and the girl she 
had cherished as her very own, turned out to be the 
daughter of the woman she had vowed, in her extrava- 
gant youth, to hate all her lifelong for Morrison Kenric’s 
sake. “Thus the whirligig of time brings in his re- 
venges.” There was no wisdom in hating or in loving, 
Miss Penny decided in bitterness of spirit, feeling her- 
self deserted. “Mine is the first place in no human 
heart,” she sadly thought and then was angry with her- 
self because for some reason she thought of Dr. Griffith 
at the same moment 

When Kenric went out to the pavilion, he found Dr. 
Griffith just arrived there. 

“Well !” said the Doctor, with satisfaction. “Here’s 
more of Little Warrenton, sir, come to Briarville. 
Here’s Mrs. Standridge ” 

“Mrs. Standridge from Little Warrenton? ?" mur- 
mured Miss Wallis, uneasily. 

“Now, Doctor! You marplot!” exclaimed that 
lady, as she rose to offer her hand to Kenric. “I 
wanted to test his remembrance.” 

“I should have stood the test, X assure you,” re- 
turned Kenric, taking her hands. “How little you are 
changed ! And how glad I am to see you ! ” 

“Thanks! That is charming; like your old self. 
I’ve no doubt his present self, which is not old, is charm- 
ing too, Miss Wallis. I believe you are admitted to be 
the judge on that point, if we may credit the report that 
is rife in Savannah. But as for me — don’t say I am so 
little changed ! Why I had to translate myself into the 
past, I assure you, to awaken Miss Fish’s memory. ” 

“It has been a long time since we met,” Miss Fish 
murmured. “ But indeed, Sophie, you are not so 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER . 


310 

much changed ; you have still that ready tongue. ” 

4 ‘Ah, Miss Fish? It is the occasion, I assure you. 
This meeting with old friends — and then two such 
surprises as I have had ! First, in meeting Laura Dent’s 
daughter here, in this pretty girl, and then in learning, 
as Dr. Griffith has just told me, that this jewel of a farm 
is owned and ‘ bossed ’ by our friend, Penny Lancaster. 
Wonders will never cease. But I don’t know why it 
should seem so wonderful. Her mother was a Donald, 
and more energy ” 

Kenric could not resist a laugh. 

“ Yes ; you always did laugh at that, Morrison,” Mrs. 
Standridge rattled on. “Mayn’t I call him ‘Morrison/ 
Miss Wallis ? You see I used to know him before you 
did.” 

Miss Wallis bowed and smiled, conscious that Mrs. 
Standridge was studying her curiously. 

“Yes,” said Miss Fish. “ Morrison met Miss Wallis 
first in New York, last fall, with the Judge, her father.” 

“ Oh ?” exclaimed Mrs. Standridge. “You are not 
a daughter of Mr. Henry Wallis, then ? ” 

“ No,” said Anastasia, with decision. She did not 
like the daughters of Mr. Henry Wallis. 

“Ah, now I understand that Donald likeness ! ” cried 
Mrs. Standridge, gleefully clapping her hands. “Miss 
Fish, how you are deceived about that first meeting ! 
Morrison knows better.” 

Kenric smiled ; Miss Wallis cast upon her an implor- 
ing glance, and quickly averted her face ; but it was 
only Kenric who saw this. 

“ What a charming romance ! ” Mrs. Standridge ex- 
claimed, as she leaned forward and caught Miss Wallis’s 
left wrist. Before any one was aware what she would 
do, except Miss Wallis herself, she had pushed up the 
broad gold band— just as Miss Penny once had done — 
and laid her finger upon a scar. “ Doctor, you remem- 
ber this ? ” she said. 

The Doctor started violently, and threw up his hands 
with a gasp of surprise. “Knocks me backward twenty 
years ! ” he stammered, when he had recovered breath. 

Miss Fish stared. 

As for Miss Wallis, she sat pale and rigid but un- 
flinching ; the thing she greatly feared had come upon 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


3 1 1 

her, but she was resolved to meet the crisis with dignity. 
Kenric placed his hand upon her chair, but she did not 
heed him. 

“ Nannie Lyndham,” said Mrs. Standridge, looking 
up at Kenric with a smile, her finger still upon the scar. 

“ I was,” said Miss Wallis with dignity. 

Mrs. Standridge withdrew her finger, suddenly con- 
scious that something was amiss. “ I beg a thousand 
pardons ! ” she exclaimed, with a look of distress that 
was almost comic. “ Have I been indiscreet?” 

“ Not at all,” said Kenric courteously, as he laid his 
hand upon Miss Wallis’s wrist. “ Of course I knew, 
my dear madam ; but to recall my earliest meeting with 
this lady, is a reminder, alas ! of my years.” 

“ There ! I have been indiscreet ! ” Mrs. Standridge 
laughed. 

“ Pray, what does all this mean? ” demanded Miss 
Fish. 

“ It means,” replied Kenric, ic that Miss Wallis has the 
honor to be the niece of Miss Penthesilea Lancaster, the 
most admirable woman that I know.” 

“ That’s so ! ” ejaculated the Doctor. “ Hem ! Ha!” 

“Ah ! Are you there, Doctor?” said Mrs. Standridge. 

The Doctor wished he had held his tongue. 

“ Well ! ” said Miss Fish irately. “ I must say that 
I consider myself imposed upon. Decidedly.” 

“ Is it an imposition that you should have learned a 
little secret sooner than was intended?” said Kenric, 
with a good-humored smile. 

“Does M — M — Miss Lancaster know ?” stammered 
Dr. Griffith. 

“ I should suppose so,” Kenric answered. “Doesn’t 
she know ? ” he added, turning to Miss Wallis. 

Miss Wallis looked at him, gratefully ; her eyes said 
far more than she could put in words. “Yes ; certain- 
ly my Aunt Penny knows,” was her answer. (“And 
she has told him,” was her thought). 

“ Oh, I am so glad ! ” sighed Marjorie. 

Kenric turned to her, smiling. “ My dear child,” he 
said, “will you go and say to her that we would all 
like to stay to tea? Wouldn’t you like to stay to tea, 
Mrs. Standridge? And you can see my son, Harry, 
you know.” 


312 


PENNY LANCASTER , FARMER. 


“ Charming I” replied Mrs. Standridge. “ I do not 
know which I most wish to see, Harry Kenric, or that 
wonderful Penny Lancaster/’ 

“You will have to see Miss Penny first, as tea is so 
nearly ready. And afterwards you shall see my son/’ 

But before they sat down to table, Anastasia had stolen 
away, and had found Miss Penny alone. “Won’t you 
kiss me ? ” she whispered, timidly. “It’s all right.” 

And Miss Penny understood. She took her niece in 
her arms and kissed her, and between laughing and 
crying, she said, “If he hadn’t been staunch to you, 
Nannie, he shouldn’t have stayed another night under 
my roof.” 

And Marjorie set forth the tea-table, for Miss Penny 
had lost her head. 

After tea, when they all went upstairs to see Harry, 
Dr. Griffith discovered Miss Penny alone upon the 
porch. 

“And you knew it all the time ? ” he said. 

“Yes; I knew it, the first day I saw her in Briar- 
ville. ” 

“Well ! That accounts for your dazed look that 
morning. Was she ashamed of you, Penny ? ” he asked, 
laying his hand on hers with a sympathy Miss Penny 
understood. 

“I don’t think she was ashamed of me,” Miss Penny 
sighed. The Doctor’s sympathy must have been ac- 
ceptable, for she did not withdraw her hand until she 
had answered. . 

“Well ! well ! ” said the Doctor. “ When the young 
fellow is on his feet again, they’ll be moving, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ I suppose so,” responded Miss Penny. 

“Full of their new plans. All of ’em. Old Toe too. 
eh ? ” 

“Of course. Marjorie, you know, will not be parted 
from him.” 

“Well he’s got adaptability. The gift of all the Lancas- 
ters, I reckon. But it's downright robbery ; so far as 

you’re concerned, grabbing Marjorie ” 

MissPenny smiled, “So Morrison Kenric says,” she re- 
plied. “But he is only doing his duty, and that’s the 
most any of us can do. ” 


PENNY LANCASTER, FARMER. 


3 'l 

The Doctor sat long silent, meditating a remark Mrs. 
Standridge had made to him years ago, regarding 
cowardice in love. At last he said, with something of 
the bashfulness of a boy : 

“A man likes straightforwardness, when it comes to 
marrying. ” 

“I suppose he does/' Miss Penny admitted. She 
thought he was thinking of Anastasia and Kenric, as he 
was, incidentally. 

“You and I have known each other a long time, 
Penny. We’ve nothing to hide.” 

Miss Penny made no reply, and the Doctor tried a 
new course. 

“You’re going to be very lonely, when they’re all 
gone. ” 

“ No, I am not ! ” said Miss Penny, decidedly. 

The Doctor was not a man of wit ; it did not occur to 
him to turn this denial to his own advantage ; he took 
it in the sober earnest with which it was spoken. “You 
think not,” he said, gravely; “but you are — going to be 
lonely. You’ve given out your heart to all these others, 
and they’ll go and leave it empty — unless you’ll take me 
in ? ’ 

“Nobody that is always busy has time to be lonely,” 
Miss Penny made answer, pusillanimously ignoring the 
Doctor’s final suggestion, and then answering it remotely 
by declaring, “ I’m not minded to give up my farm.” 

“It’s not your farm, it’s yourself I’m always thinking 
of,” said the Doctor, his courage mounting with occa- 
sion. “I’m not a man that needs a woman to take care 
of me.” Miss Penny glanced at him askance, and 
thought how comfortable she might make him, only by 
brushing his clothes. 

“ I’ve plenty for all I’m ever likely to need,” he went 
on, eagerly. “Enough for us both. In the way of 
money. And I don’t need to tell you what I think of 
you, Penny. Lord ! you’ve known it, all these years. 
No friend you ever had has been so constant as Malcolm 
Griffith. ” 

Yes ! Miss Penny had known it all these years, and 
she blushed to think she had never rightly prized this 
devoted, patient affection until now that the prospect of 
loneliness appalled her. Yet in spite of prospect and 


314 


PENNY LANCASTER , PARMER. 


retrospect, when Dr. Griffith, following up the advan- 
tage he saw he had gained at last, urged her to marry 
him now; to-morrow? next week? next month? that 
ungrateful Penny Lancaster would only say : 

“I'll think of it” 


the END. 


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